Giles didn’t make me wait on him as a rule, didn’t expect me to cook for him or do the laundry like bloody Harris did when I stayed with him. There were times I spent hours naked, kneeling and waiting for orders if I’d done something to piss him off – or even just because he wanted me like that, but that was different.

On the Wednesday of that first week with him, he decided he wanted tea. He really did drink that stuff, even when no one was looking. A taste for it was something I lost too long ago to remember, but I knew how to make it and I could make it with tea leaves like he preferred. Trouble was they clogged the sink up. When he saw the mess I’d left he asked for another pot. Too weak. Made me throw it away, start over. Next one; too strong. By the time he’d finished impersonating Goldilocks, I’d made him six bloody pots.Finally he took one sip, set the cup down and nodded, all nice and cool. “That’s fine, Spike. Thank you.”

His eyes went back to his book and I waited for about thirty seconds. He lifted his head and gave me a puzzled smile. “Yes?”

Absolute innocence, not a hint of anything else. I’d made him a cuppa and he’d said thanks. End of story. I peeled off my t-shirt and dropped it in front of him. That got me a lifted eyebrow and a polite, surprised look. “Damp,” I explained. “The kitchen’s all foggy.”

He laid his book down after closing it. Knew he wasn’t really reading it; no bookmark. I watched as he reached for the shirt, picked it up and felt it.

“Seems dry enough to me,” he remarked, tossing it aside.

“Well, if you want me to catch my death –”

“Oh, no,” he said, his face serious. “Please, do get out of those damp things.”

He let me get tangled up in my jeans, trying to work them over my feet without hopping around, and grabbed me just as I kicked them off. He moved fast when he wanted to. As soon as I felt his hands on me I stopped, stood still and waited. That was what it was like back then, when he was still raw, still healing. I’d never know when it would all change: go from summer day calm to eye of the storm. He wasn’t angry with me right then but he wasn’t playing either.

He stood behind me, his right arm curled around my waist, his other on my left shoulder. I waited to hear the rules, knowing there’d be something I had to do, not do... “Hands by your side.”  They were anyway and I felt the muscles in my arms tense as if I was already fighting his command, already wanting to move, to touch him.

He slid his hand across the nape of my neck; made me shiver and lean back against him. His hand carried on moving, clamping down on my right shoulder hard enough to hurt and then slipping back to lie flat against the side of my neck, forcing my head to the side with a steady push. Done it a thousand times myself. If I let myself I could almost hear that tiny noise skin stretched tight makes when fangs pierce it, could almost see the dark blood well up, almost see the moment when it flashed from blue to red as the air altered it, almost taste it pouring, spurting, filling me, making me real, just for a moment.

Giles’ teeth grazed my neck and I felt my hands clutching at air, my hips jerking forward as his hand slipped from waist to cock. So delicate...teeth and fingers touching, teasing when I wanted them to – his teeth sank in, biting down as his fingers curled tightly, possessively, working my cock with rapid, hard strokes and I think I screamed because he moved his mouth to cover mine, letting me taste my blood on him, while his hand kept moving and I fought to keep my hands by my side because I knew if I moved, if I reached back for him, he’d stop and I’d –

He pulled his mouth away, and turned me around so that we were facing each other, taking his hand away from my cock. Thought for a moment he was going to leave me like that, sit back down, and pick up his book. Really don’t know what I’d have done. He’d timed it so that I was on the edge of coming, hurting with it, aching and desperate. The bite mark on my neck was throbbing as if his teeth were still there and I started to count each throb, willing myself not to come, not to beg, not to howl. Got to five and he grinned, a wicked, gleeful grin.

Then he sank to his knees, grabbed my arse and pulled me to him, taking me deep, sucking hard while his fingers dug in. I wanted to hold his head still, fuck that blood smeared mouth hard - Couldn’t do it. My hands stayed in place, I came when he let me, and when he rocked back on his heels, smiling up at me as he wiped his hand across his mouth, he looked just the same as he looked when it was me down there. In control. Giles wanted to taste me, he did it, end of story.

He stood up, sat back in his chair and looked at me. “I think your clothes should be dry now, Spike. Perhaps you’d like to get dressed?”

Sometimes he needs saving from himself. I picked up the cup of tea and sipped it. Lukewarm. Tasted awful. “If I tipped this in your lap, what would you do, Giles?”

“Put my trousers in to soak; tea stains terribly.” Scary part was that I think he meant it.

I sighed. “After that.”

“Oh, you mean the part where I don’t spend the next hour fucking you because I’m too exhausted from applying, hmm, let me see...my belt perhaps? to your impudent little arse?”

“Just asking.”

“Of course.”

“Hypothetical”

“Indeed.”

“Going to fuck me, Giles?”

“Oh, yes.”

Knew I could convince him.


Go to Chapter Six

Return to Home