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Buffy swallows hard, holding the strip of warm brown leather in her hands. It’s soft to the touch, and when she turns it over, the metal rings of it jingle.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Spike says, kneeling in front of her on the cold stone floor of his crypt, in his jeans and nothing else. “You wanna put it on me, pet?”
“I…” She runs her thumb over the stitching. She’s not sure if she wants to collar Spike. Not sure if she wants to claim ownership of him like that, and yet the idea of it is setting a little fire low in her belly. She tries to break the tension with a joke: “Well, it’s not like ‘Spike’ isn’t already a dog’s name.”
“Hey!”
Snickering, Buffy reaches down and wraps the leather around his throat. She pulls the tab through the metal rings and buckles it carefully, then adjusts its position slightly before letting it go. It sits against the bottom of his throat, rich against his pale skin. Buffy licks her lips.
A few years ago, Spike had said, I may be love’s bitch, but at least I’m man enough to admit it. Buffy doesn’t want to think about the “love” part, but the “bitch” part… Well. He looks good with a collar on, that’s for sure.
“There,” she says, and flicks one of the rings to hear it clink.
“How’s it look?” he asks, and she watches the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“Looks good,” she admits quietly.
He grins up at her. “Thought you might think so.”
“It suits you,” Buffy adds. “The way you’re always sniffing around like you think you’re my dog.”
“I am your dog,” he replies instantly, and her stomach does a flip.
Gingerly, she reaches for him. She runs her fingers through his short hair, scritching at his scalp, behind his ear. He leans into the touch, eyelids lowering, rubs his face against her palm.
His voice is rough when he clarifies, “An attack dog. ’M not your puppy, slayer.”
“Mm,” she says. “Yeah, because you don’t follow after me drooling and whining for attention all the time.”
He makes a growling sound low in his throat, but his eyes have slipped shut as she pets his hair. He says, “I do not drool.”
“Good dogs don’t talk,” she tells him.
“Well, I’m not a very good dog, am I? Or have you forgotten?” His eyes open again, bright glittery blue, and he arches an eyebrow. “Just because Spike doesn’t chase the other puppies anymore…”
“Oh, so you admit that a puppy is what you are.”
“Stuff it, slayer. I can still bite you.”
“Not if you don’t want to get whacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.”
He growls again, but this time it’s a playful one, a smirk curling his lips. He tells her, “I can be a good dog for you. Just this once, if you want.”
She runs her finger along his neck right above where the collar sits and asks, “And what do good dogs do?”
“Well, they don’t talk, for one thing,” says Spike, and Buffy rolls her eyes.
“What else?”
He leans up on his knees and nips at her inner thigh through her jeans, the thick denim muffling the sensation into nothing more than a tickle. With his nose pressed to her groin, he says, “Woof,” and grins up at her.
She drags him by the collar to his bed, where she kicks off her shoes and shoves her jeans and underwear down. With her lower half bare, she sits on the edge of the bed and yanks him closer, and he kneels obediently between her legs, which she spreads for him.
“Make me come, Spike,” she tells him.
Spike buries his face in her cunt, lapping messily at her opening with his soft wet tongue. He licks up through her, parting her flesh and seeking out her clit to rub at it. He wraps his lips around it and sucks, and Buffy’s hips jump up into the sensation.
“Good,” she gasps. “Good dog. Use your fingers, too.”
“Doggies can’t do that,” Spike murmurs against her, and thrusts his tongue inside her instead.
“Fuck,” says Buffy, and threads her fingers through his hair to hold him in place.
He’s sloppier than he usually is, licking swift broad stripes over her, his mouth making wet noises against her cunt. She wraps her legs around his head, her heels against his back and her thighs bracketing his ears. His hands go to her hips to hold her steady as he sucks on her clit again and she ruts up into his mouth.
Her eyes have shut and her head is tipped back, but she reaches down and finds his collar blindly, clinging to it. She squirms against his face, a moan being pulled from her throat, and comes with her back arching and her hips rocking.
“Fuck,” she says, “good dog. Good dog, Spike.”
He whines, unzipping his jeans and pulling his cock out. It juts out of his waistband, flushed and throbbing, and he looks up at her, begging wordlessly. She nods, breathless, happy to let him do whatever he wants with it.
He stands up and leans over her body on the bed, mounting her thigh. He presses his face against the side of her neck, breathing in the smell of her sweat, and humps her leg with quick shallow motions.
“Good dog,” she whispers, and scrubs her hands through his hair, nails over his scalp.
He comes against her hip, his cock spurting onto her abdomen, a whine in his throat. When he’s finished, he flops on top of her, nuzzling the juncture of her neck.
“Mmph,” he says, and licks a ticklish spot beneath her ear affectionately, making her shiver.
The collar is pressed up against the base of her throat, the leather of it warm and the metal rings chilly. It feels nice.
Again, she tells him, “Good dog.”