She's been bent over this chair for what seems like hours now, the wooden back digging into her stomach, her shoulders aching from the way her hands are tied, lashed to the struts rising from the seat.
Using silk. Two strips of hand-stitched silk, stripped from two stiff necks. She squints at her wrists. Red spots on blue: that was Giles' tie. Blue stripes on red was Wesley's. Maybe. Getting hard to remember details like that. Maybe it was the other way 'round.
But Giles' hand had gone straight to his top button, twisting it and the one below open with a sigh of relief and Wes was still buttoned-up guy, his hand occasionally going to an invisible tie to straighten it. Yeah. She hadn't got that mixed-up.
The murmur of voices fades and she hears footsteps coming towards her.
They'd started with their hands, slow, measured smacks that left a sting that faded fast, covering the area they'd bared with such fussy precision, tucking up her T shirt an inch, peeling her tight black jeans down just enough to expose her ass and the tops of her thighs.
Wesley's hands had hesitated when it came time to pluck at the elastic of her thong, brushing nervously against her ass, but when crunch time came, he'd hit her the hardest. Quiet ones. Always had to watch out for them.
When they'd realised a Slayer's ass could take a spanking and not do more than pink up, they'd moved onto their belts and she'd forced out a weak laugh as she imagined their pants ending up around their ankles, but it emerged as a whimper and she didn't laugh again.
Her jeans weren't going anywhere, even though she'd been made to bring her feet a little closer. She'd spread them wide to flash them a glimpse of her cunt, hoping it'd maybe put them off their aim, and that strangled, choking cough right after just had to be from Wes, because it was Giles's foot that'd calmly kicked her boot back where he wanted it, leaving her flushed with borrowed shame as if she was the one doing something wrong here.
The belts had worked, especially when they'd got the rhythm right, standing on either side of her, swinging them so that the whistle of one was backed by the crack of the other. Her ass was burning brightly, stretched skin, taut and swollen and tight. Like a red balloon, she thinks dizzily, but her ass doesn't feel floaty, no, because the pain's soaked into it, weighing it down.
And she could've taken it all but for two things and the first was their voices.
"...reckless and wild, unwarranted risk, you are the Slayer, lives depend..., on you, on you, on...need to be told, to learn, to see... consequences, always ..."
And really, it hadn't been that bad, what she'd done. She'd shown off, yeah, played to the crowd a bit. And Xander's arm would heal and Willow, well, she'd missed, what, a day, two days of school? So not a big deal. The vampires were dead – eventually – and that was what mattered. Job done, vamps dusted.
But they didn't get that shit like this happens on patrols and their voices rise and fall in time with their arms and she's so very fucking sick of this, but it's over now, hands fumbling at knots in ties, with Wes studying the creased-to-ruin remnants of his and looking as if he's about to burst into fucking tears.
And they're helping her up but she slaps them away, glaring at Wesley when he shoves sweat-warm hands down her jeans to find her thong, dressing herself with hands that shake, just a little.
And then Giles turns from her and glances over at the second reason this had come close to breaking her.
Buffy jumps down from her perch, where she couldn't see Faith's ass but she could see every tear, every grimace, every wince, as the Slayer who didn't matter paid for the sins of the one who did.
"I'll never do it again, Giles. Ever," she says earnestly. "I totally messed up."
His smile's tolerant, forgiving now.
Hers is winsome and there's a girlish fucking pout just waiting to happen.
"Good girl. Off you go then."
Giles glances at Faith. "You too, Faith. I'd like you to patrol on the east side tonight; there were three bodies found this morning."
Faith yawns, jarred from her daydream, and stands up, pushing the wooden chair back under the table. "Sure."
She gives Giles a nod, spares Wesley a sneer that's totally wasted because he's nose-deep in a book, and saunters out after the One and Only, giving Giles a wiggle of her ass because she likes to leave an impression.
And rubbing at her wrists, because when she dreams in surround-sound like that, feels like it's got to leave bruises on more than her soul.
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