All About Spike

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Blood Satin
By Kalima

Disclaimers: I do not own the characters which are the property of Joss Whedon and ME and those other guys, and I don’t even own the dress.



Heavy silk satin the colour of blood, long sleeves dripping down to the floor and a train that sweeps behind her as she walks towards him. Nothing beneath it. He can see it when she moves, nipples hard against the slick fabric, the outline of her pubic mound and the slight curve of her belly, her thighs, her knees. He can smell her menstrual blood.

His own knees turn to jelly and he falls to them like a supplicant. “Are you trying to kill me, woman?”

“Do you want it?”

“Christ yeah.”

She smiles at that, drifts across the stones, stands before him, arching her pelvis forward so that her satin covered stomach touches his mouth, nose, forehead. Her hands grip the fabric of the skirt to gather it up, up. He leans back a little, his own hands anxious to assist, sliding the gown up her thighs, his fingers splayed as they move over the landscape of her flesh, grasping both fabric and hipbones, pulling her closer. He rubs his face in the beads of moisture caught in the curls of her pubic hair, the smears of blood between her thighs. Blood and ocean. Drowning in you.

She shifts slightly at the first probing of his tongue, the soles of her bare feet shuffling wide until her thighs are open and his mouth closes over her, his tongue pushing between folds of flesh, the thick sticky beautiful mess between. Now her hands on his head, absolution offered. Now beatitudes in the whisper brush of trailing silk sleeves against his temples. Dark communion and terrible joy. He drinks in blood and ocean, swallows blood and light, feels the shaking muscles of her thighs against his face, the hard and the soft of her between his lips, beneath his tongue and teeth. Her fingers twist into his hair, dig into his skull, pain to distract him from the throb of his erection beating against the zipper of his jeans like a fist upon a door. In a few minutes she’s coming. Oh yes. Oh yes. Spasms, jerks, and shudders so intense he has to hold her tight enough to bruise lest she fall. And she says, yes, yes, good, good, yes, yes, ah, ah, ah, so good, mmmm…and mmmmmm…and then a laugh bubbling out, giddy, ecstatic, delight beyond any other possible expression.

That’s new as well.

He sits back, lets fall the blood-coloured satin to cover her again, then gets to his feet. She sways slightly and her eyes blink languid, unfocused, dream-soft. He takes hold of her arms, mostly to steady her, and waits. He wants to have her in the gown, slide across the slick fabric and her skin, move inside her, bloody silk beneath, tangling, binding them both.

He waits. And she draws his face to hers. He waits and she licks around his mouth, kissing the taste of blood and ocean from his lips. He waits and her hand takes his hand. She moves them to the bed. Makes him sit, kneels at his feet, unlaces his boots and pulls them off. The sounds echo in the room, muted thuds and her soft breath, and the swish of the fabric of her blood red gown. Her movements are unhurried, careful, studied. Pulling off the socks. Tossing them aside. Hands moving up his legs, the rasp of her fingernails over denim covered thighs, brushing lightly past what’s pushing hard against the zipper, not touching him there, reaching for the belt buckle. Exquisite. Methodical. Torturous. Buckle undone now. Button undone now. She pushes him back to lie upon the bed. He inhales, exhales, sharp, short, an ancient habit to relieve tension, then more anxiety as she carefully pulls the zipper down and his cock springs free. Jeans pulled over his hips, a murmured command “lift up” and he does. She leans in to tug them past his buttocks, so close that her hot breath moistens the soft skin at the apex of pelvis and thigh, making him shiver. Her cheek just brushes his cock, causing it to dance. She pulls back and he shudders. Grasping both legs of the jeans, another swift tug has them on the floor.

He’s still wearing the t-shirt. She’s looking at him, her eyes like her cunt sucking him in.

“You’re really beautiful,” she says. A terrible ache in his chest at the words. He’s said the same thing to her so many times she must feel the truth of it in her marrow by now. But what does it mean when she says it to him? “Beautiful,” she says again.

She lifts the gown, baring her thighs. Kneels on the bed to straddle him letting the satin pour over his body. He moans at the sensation. Can’t help it. Her hands slide under his shirt, pushing it up beneath his armpits as she’s dragging her mouth up over stomach and ribs to take a hard little nipple between her lips and suckle. He hisses. Can’t help it. Teeth. Lips again. Other nipple. Lips, teeth, lips, pulling, pulling. He groans. Can’t help it. And his hands begin a frantic dance of satin and flesh, satin and flesh. He wants to rub the two together, make a new kind of skin they can crawl into and share. One hand moves, gripping the fabric, scrunching it in messy folds to squeeze the globes of her bottom, fingers worming their way to her slippery slit. Like satin, her blood and juices on his hand. She squirms approvingly, making his cock jump again.

His other hand roams over a satin covered tit, thumb flicking the nipple. She spreads herself over him languorous and sweet. Sucks his lower lip into her mouth. “You taste yummy.”

“That’s all you, my love.” And then, “Fuck me.”

“Magic word?”

“Fuck me now.”

She giggles, wriggles her pussy, slippity sliding him in. Oh God. Oh God yeah. Slow, up and down and that sticky, slurpy suction sound, and oh, oh, oh getting messy now. Nice bloody fucking good messy all over his cock and his belly and his thighs, feeling and knowing, not seeing it, not having to see it, heavy silk satin gliding over his chest and his fingers digging into her hip bones forcing her to ride him a little harder now, and now faster. Her arms go up, raised to the ceiling. It strikes him as a holy gesture and his mind creates a fanciful interpretation - invoking the power of the moon maybe, calling down lightning – but then her head lolls back, exposing her throat and he can’t think fanciful. All mixed up, blood on his cock and her mouth open. A low moan and whose voice is that now? Which part is him? Whose skin? Whose blood?

They grunt together, hard grunts, unh, unh, uhn rising in pitch until it’s the same sound, the same voice, uhn, uhn, uhn. She reaches down, to rub the satin over her clit and his hand covers hers, rubbing, feeling it in her hand, his hand, his cock pressing against the underside, the inside and the outside of pleasure pushing towards each other. Blood and pussy, blood and pussy, his cock aimed to heaven and her blood flowing over it dragging him into hell. Hell is delicious.

“Gonna come, gonna come now, oh god oh god oh god,” she pants. It’s her voice cocks the hammer, squeezes the trigger, bamm! His prick fires, shooting hard pulses into her bloody cunt and he roars until his throat is raw, spunk-empty, drained. Her womb is heavy still, still rich and full of life’s promise. He hears her laughing all around him – bells and blood satin and moonlight and oceans. He’s well and truly caught. A binding spell in gore and silk.

He smiles as she falls across him. Strands of her hair tickle his collarbone.

“Well, well,” he murmurs, brushing her cheek, fingers painting her with tiny streaks of blood. “It seems my slayer is a witch after all.” Like every woman that ever walked the earth.

“That’s why it was always taboo or something right? Cuz we’re so freaking powerful when we’re menstruating. Hey! You drank my power.”

“Yep.” He brushes the hair away from her face. “You witch you. Love the frock by the way.”

“I think we ruined it.”

“Can I have it?”

“You are so weird.”

“I’m not gonna wear it! Use it as a pillow or something.”

“Sorry. It has to be dry-cleaned now. I was going to try to return it, but…”

“Speaking of cleaning. Don’t suppose you want to clean my dick with your tongue?”

She snorts. “Dream on, baby.”

He ponders a bit. “Thinkin’ maybe I’ll take up yoga.”

“Huh?”

“So’s I can lick it clean m’self the next time.”

She laughs and it rumbles against his chest. “You know how ridiculous that sounds? I mean, I was going to say perverted but it’s just so stupidly Man.”

“Yeah, well, we better do something or we’re going to be glued together rather painfully in another few minutes.”

She sits up. “Tell you what. You get me a towel and some warm water and I’ll wash you till you’re shiny.”

“And then will you…?”

She pats his soft penis and grins. “We’ll see.”

Suddenly it isn’t soft anymore. Witch.



~fin~

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