Secretary: Part Twelve


Chapter Three Hundred and Eight

And she tastes those five words as she sleeps, when she wakes, as she floats through the days that follow, because with Wesley silence is always the sharpest weapon he's got. He's screamed hurtful words, sure, but they're less cruel than the cold rejection of a turned head and compressed lips. And if he can give her five words, then fifteen, fifty and, even better, the four it takes to say 'I love you, Faith', go from being a dream to being a possibility.

But there's never anything in her in box from him, and by Thursday night, she's lost the euphoria and she's sitting moodily pushing pasta around her plate and wondering why it doesn't taste the way it did when Wes made it. Course, he was using fresh salmon not canned tuna – and the garlic infused sauce wasn't flavored with some flecks of dubious yellow that she'd scraped out of a jar of garlic powder that had calcified with age. No, with Wes it'd been fresh garlic cloves, emerging from their papery shells to be crushed and scattered and stirred.

And he'd never accompanied it with diet Pepsi but what the hell; she's trying. Even put a single floret of broccoli on the plate, just to show willing, although it's so gonna get scraped into the trash because it's limp and watery instead of slightly crunchy.

Darla's eating with one eye on the clock because she's going out to the movies with a friend. She hasn't said who it is but Faith's guessing it's her boss, who's being pretty damn accommodating about Darla taking afternoons off to get her hair colored or go shopping. She gets up from the table and checks her makeup anxiously before grabbing her purse.

"Gotta run, honey. I said I'd wait outside and I don't want to keep him waiting."

Faith grins knowingly. "Him?"

Darla applies another layer of lipstick and winks at Faith before heading towards the door with a gentle sway of her hips, limbering up. Halfway there she gives this startled squeak. "I forgot, sweetie, this parcel came for you today. I signed for it and left it in your room." The flirtatious demeanor drops away and she's fidgeting. "It's from him I guess," she blurts out. "From New York. I mean, it's gotta be him, right?"

Faith's just staring at her because really, what the hell can she say, and Darla shakes her head impatiently, diamante earrings catching the light. "Want me to stick around while you open it?" she offers, one eye on the door.

Faith summons up a smile. "Nah. It'll just be some stuff of mine that got mixed in with his, I bet."

Darla frowns. "And it's taken him four months to notice?"

Good point... but the honk of a car horn saves her from finding an answer, and with an unexpected, hurried kiss that leaves Faith with a Sunset Sky colored smear on her cheek, Darla leaves.

Left alone with a ticking fucking time bomb, Faith starts to tidy the table. She'll clear the table of the dirty dishes, wash them, dry them, put them away... maybe even take a nice long bath now she's got the place to herself, finish that crossword puzzle... oh, who is she fucking kidding?

She drops a sauce-encrusted plate back where she found it and heads for her bedroom.

Of course, once she's holding the parcel, which is about the size of a phone directory but way lighter, she slows down. Right down. Because only Wes could've wrapped it in brown paper with mathematically-precise folded corners and neat, cut with scissors, tape and she can't stop running her hands over where his have been. He's put his return address on it, which makes sense, as she's already told him she knows it, and God, just the sight of his spiky, neat handwriting brings a tremulous smile to her face. Even if he's bowed to practicality and used black ink, not brown for once.

She goes back to the kitchen, searching for a knife so she can open it without damaging the wrapping, and it's like fucking Christmas, although, with Halloween just a few weeks away and no idea what's in the parcel, trick or treat's probably closer to the mark.

Inside the paper is a plain brown shoe-box and she lifts the lid and stares down at the contents, looking eagerly for a letter from him, or God, a plane ticket would be nice... No such luck.

She lifts out the contents, one by one, and arranges them on the quilt. She studies the collection and it doesn't make any sense. There's a menu, a newspaper – The New York Times, natch – an oval piece of card, and a ticket stub.

It's – well, it's confusing, but it's also intriguing, and she dons her Sherlock hat and goes to work. The menu's for a place called Fauchon and the address is so close to where he lives that she guess it's where he stops for breakfast because it looks like that kinda place. Croissants and coffee, and she can taste the buttery flakiness of the ones he used to feed her, the ones that left her lips slick and sweet and waiting for him to dab them with a heavy napkin or kiss them clean, depending on his mood.

She turns over the single sheet and sees a date on the back, and this time, yeah, he's used the brown ink. It's the Saturday just gone; the ninth.

"OK, Wes," she murmurs, starting to get it. "I know what you did in the morning..."

And after breakfast, looks like he went shopping because the oval card is from a shop called Artisinal and he's told her about this place, over her shrieks of horror, 'cause it's the place cheese goes to die and get even grosser and he can get lyrical describing the two hundred varieties on sale and how the mingled aromas waft out so each inhalation is a delight, and he can threaten to take her there for fondue all he wants, but it's still just –

She brings the card up and stares at the scribble of brown ink that's corrected  the original printing, declaring that they're purveyors of fine cheeses, to a way more accurate 'stinky cheeses', and she's jumping off the bed and doing a shimmy-shake of victory because dammit, he loves her. He's fucking joking with her, and he's the most infuriatingly stubborn bastard on the whole freaking planet but she's still champagne-fizz happy for one tingling minute.

When she's settled back down on the bed again, heart doing little skippety-frolics and a big grin making her face ache, it's so wide, she reaches for the paper. It's the Monday edition, which kinda throws her, because she'd been thinking he was leading her through a day and it doesn't fit the pattern.

The Monday paper is always on the light side, a palate cleanser after the heavy richness of Sunday's big feature articles, the glossy goodness of the magazine, and the mind breaking trials of the crossword. She flips through the A section, carefully reading all the articles, stopping to sigh over a pretty dress and coat in a Neiman Marcus ad.

She doesn't know what she's looking for, but she's relatively sure she'll know it when she sees it. She skims the national, then the international news and the opinion page, even if it is all kind of stale now, and reading all this stuff is like looking back through a tiny telescope at the previous week.

There's nothing of note in the business section either – it's mostly pages of stock quotes anyway and dry articles about mergers and acquisitions and mutual fund scandals. Stifling a yawn, she tackles the arts and leisure section next, glad that she'll at least get to do the easy-peasy Monday crossword – that is, if he hasn't already filled it all in.

When she sees what he wants her to see --  right there on the front page of the arts section, of course -- she's annoyed she didn't just start there.

“Always in the last place you look,” she laughs.

The ticket stub matches up with a review of sparse, modern production of Ibsen's Hedda Gabler off-Broadway. He's bracketed a paragraph of the review, with a tiny notation: First theatrical production I've seen here. Surprisingly fitting?


The manifestations of Hedda's intelligence, in its healthier stages, have an unmistakably contemporary ring: Ms. Marvel uses the deeper recesses of her voice to bring deader-than-deadpan inflections to long passages of Christopher Hampton's admirably starch-free translation. (Think Janeane Garofalo at her sarcastic best.) Her dry rejoinders are often accompanied by a withering, contemptuous glare. But existing alongside this self-conscious irony is a childish impulsiveness. Hedda doesn't just announce her boredom; she demonstrates it by flinging herself on the floor and beating the daylights out of the flower arrangements, a child pointlessly smashing its toys. Hedda's fervent desire to control someone else's destiny, it seems, is a dangerous side effect of her inability to control her emotions.

But [director] Mr. van Hove is not simply anatomizing the self-destruction of a flawed personality; nor is the production's updating a superficial gesture. Mr. van Hove is using Ibsen's text as a mirror to reflect a contemporary culture in which isolation, self-absorption and a need to instantly satisfy emotional whims are the norm.

She almost tosses the paper aside in disgust after reading the entire review, thinking he's implying that she's like the super-bratty Hedda.

Until it dawns on her that he's pointing that criticism directly at ... himself. Even if she does look and sound more like Janeane Garofalo than he does. And she's pretty sure she did actually destroy a flower arrangement, once or twice at least.

She wishes she could have seen the play with him -- been there giving his hand little meaningful squeezes whenever Hedda unleashed one of those withering contemptuous glares at her equally contemptuous husband. But honestly, she's just glad he's getting out, doing something – even if his first choice of entertainment doesn't sound much more thrilling than staying home and watching a bunch of those soapy melodramas on the WB.

Flipping through the pages, she notices with a smile that he's left half the crossword undone, also with a little note: I nearly finished this before I remembered you always liked doing the Monday puzzle. Hope you don't mind I've done half.

“Really don't mind, Wes,” she says, running her fingers over the slightly smeared newsprint before digging around in the drawer of her nightstand for a pen so she can polish off the remainder of the clues, her scrawly handwriting lined up in the little boxes, occasionally crossing paths with his perfectly-formed letters to form entire words.

Chapter Three Hundred and Nine


She floats through the next three days like the world has turned to air around her. Even Darla badgering her about the contents of the package and making not-so-veiled remarks about how she "better not be back in touch with that bastard, Faith, 'cause he's only going to break your heart again," can't dent her good mood.

That Sunday she gets a "Hello, Faith," when he answers the phone. Not with a question mark at the end of it either. She reads him five pages from Tender Is The Night because she can't trust herself with small talk - if he doesn't join in or, worse, hangs up, she's going to be destroyed.

("He knew that there was passion there, but there was no shadow of it in her eyes or on her mouth; there was a faint spray of champagne on her breath. She clung nearer desperately and once more he kissed her and was chilled by the innocence of her kiss, by the glance that at the moment of contact looked beyond him out into the darkness of the night, the darkness of the world.")

And when she's done, he sighs quietly and then says, "Good night, Faith. I hope you sleep well."

And while she's trying to lever her jaw up off the floor, he rings off.

So that's ten words now. And OK, it's not, "I'm sorry. I'm a stupid, fucked-up idiot but please come back to me because I love you and I can't live without you," but it's ten whole words. It's practically a conversation.

Then when she gets in from work on Thursday, Darla's tight-lipped disapproval tells her that another package has arrived before she can even spit the words out.

There's last Monday's New York Times with the crossword half-filled in ("I took the liberty of filling in some of the more obscure clues"), a menu from the Round Table room of the Algonquin Hotel with the Grilled Asparagus, Warm Toasted Goat Cheese, Walnut Pesto and Roasted Red And Yellow Tomatoes starter ringed and a note in the margin, which reads, "I doubt this would have met with your approval" and a ticket stub for the Sunday matinee showing of It Happened One Night.

The next Sunday, she gets a "Hello, Faith" on the second ring followed by "How are you?"

She doesn't draw breath once in five minutes as she tells him about Darla's new boyfriend who stayed over for the first time the night before and how she tried to make macaroni and cheese from scratch and ended up burning the bottom out of their only saucepan and the Halloween party that she's going to and how Dru wants her to take part in her performance art piece as some freaky Victorian doll come to life. Finally she has to stop because she's this close to hyperventilating and there's a pause just long enough for her to panic before he says, "And what are you going to read tonight, Faith?" and he sounds just amused and tender enough, maybe even slightly wistful though she's probably projecting, that she doesn't get hissy that he's not in share mode either and gives him five pages of The Age Of Innocence.

("it was the lightest touch but it thrilled him like a caress.")

"I have to go now, Faith," he says, when she comes to the end. "Have a good week and I'll speak to you next Sunday."

She can't bear it any longer. "Are you OK, Wes?" she blurts out. "Is the job going well? Do you like New York? Is your apartment nice? Have you…"

He cuts her off with a very gentle exhalation like her onslaught of questions is giving him a headache. "Everything's fine," he says tetchily enough that her heart skips a beat. "I really do have to go."

And he's gone and she cries every night until Thursday when she runs all the way home and there's a box waiting for her on her bed and a muttering Darla lurking in the kitchen.

She only lingers on The New York Times just to make sure that he's started the crossword, which he has, with an underlined, "I could have sworn that Monday's was meant to be easier!" And that exclamation mark speaks volumes because it's Wes cracking a joke and she's missed that. Missed him teasing her.

There's also a brown paper bag with the name Tea And Sympathy printed on it and inside a small glass jar of this brown pasty stuff called Marmite which smells worse than the stinkiest of stinky cheeses and finally there's a postcard of a cartoon from The New Yorker with "Did you ever finish Mansfield Park?" written on the back in his precise script.

By the time Sunday rolls round again she's in a state of giddy excitement, which might have something to do with the jug of margaritas she mixed up in the blender and gulped down in an hour. She's sitting on her bed wearing a little, black vintage dress and an alice band with some fuzzy ears attached to it, and drawing whiskers on her face with an eyebrow pencil and a shaky hand, which is as far as she's going with the Halloween costume even though Dru didn't exactly take it in good humor when she absolutely refused to dress up as a Victorian doll.

"I'm going as a cat, Dru," she'd insisted when they met for brunch. "A sexy cat. It's, like this whole low maintenance, non humiliating costume option."

Dru had pouted. "Victorian dolls can be sexy too."

"Course they can, princess," Spike had said hastily and they'd both glared at him.

And now it's time for book at bedtime with Wes and she's half drunk and all prettied up, almost able to taste the anticipation in her mouth, which has more to do with the fact that he's going to say her name in, like, thirty seconds rather than the Halloween party.

She's got ten seconds to go but she's already dialing his number and trying to ride out the butterflies fluttering in her tummy like they're on amphetamine.

"Hello Faith," he says after the third ring because he was way too eager last time. "How have you been?"

"Great, just great," she trills with a nervous giggle. "I'm going to a Halloween thing after this and I've got tomorrow off work. So you been trick and treating yet?"

Her boldness gets her the faintest of chuckles. "Hardly. So what's your literary selection for this evening?"

She snuggles back against her pillows, adjusts her cat's ears and takes another slug of lukewarm Margarita. "The Virgin Suicides; have you read it?"

And it's kinda against the rules to trap him in conversation but this is her game. Always was, even though he rang first and if she wants to talk, then he can damn well talk back or just, like, be all passive aggressive and shit and hang up.

"No, I can't say I have, though I dimly recall seeing it in, well… they made it into a film, didn't they?"

"Yeah, you should totally watch it," she exclaims and her voice is too shrill and she winces slightly. "You still got the TV?"

He doesn't say anything for a while. Long enough that she's rolling her eyes and mentally hitting herself over the head with a large, blunt object.

"Yes," he says tersely enough to make her tear ducts start prickling. "I'd like you to start reading now, Faith."

It helps that she loves the book. It's probably her favorite of all the things she's read so it's not hard to lose herself and for her voice to go all throbby as she finishes off reading the paragraph that struck her so hard that she typed it out and stuck it on her computer:

"We knew the pain of winter wind rushing up your skirt, and the ache of keeping your knees together in class, and how drab and infuriating it was to jump rope while the boys played baseball. . . . We felt the imprisonment of being a girl, the way it made your mind active and dreamy, and how you ended up knowing which colors went together. We knew that the girls were our twins, that we all existed in space like animals with identical skins, and that they knew everything about us though we couldn't fathom them at all. We knew, finally, that the girls were really women in disguise, that they understood love and even death, and that our job was merely to create the noise that seemed to fascinate them."

"Thank you," he says, as she takes another gulp of Margarita to wet her mouth. "That was lovely. I'll have to find a copy for myself."

"Oh, you totally should!" And she should just stop with the gushing. These phone calls are meant to be about wedging that goddamn door open another inch so she can give him a contact high from the sound of her voice. Seduce him with words from all the books that she's read and learnt from so she's this smarter, more intelligent, well-rounded version of the Faith that he might still be in love with. "So, same time, same place, next week, Wes?"

Everything's magnified when the love of your life is on the other end of the phone and all you have to go on is what's coming down the fibre optics. Right now he's clearing his throat, which means he's nervous. So that means the door's swinging open and he's about to crack like a…

"I'm afraid… I'm sorry, Faith, but that won't be possible. You see…"

She doesn't give him a chance to finish. Can't bear him stammering and stuttering because this time he has to actually speak to her as he hauls her heart out of her ribcage and tears it into tiny pieces.

"Yeah, I fucking see, Wes," she hisses. "I see that nothing's changed, that you haven't changed."

"Faith…" Oh, isn't that funny? Old Wes trying to give her a blast of freeze-dried frost.

"Shut the fuck up and listen to me!" She's shouting now. With a bit of luck she might be able to perforate his eardrum. "Why aren't you getting over yourself? It's not because you can't. It's because you fucking won't. You're too chickenshit to do anything that means that you might actually be happy. Because you're too busy getting off on being miserable and thinking you're some kind of freak. You phoned me, you fucker! You didn't have to. Didn't have to send me your bullshit crosswords and give me these fucking crumbs of hope with your 'Hello Faiths' and 'How have you been, Faiths?' I'm not going to wait for fucking ever, Wes and right now I'm going to go out and I'm going to fuck the first half decent guy I find because I'm done with saving it for you."

And the problem with cell phones is that you can't slam down the receiver so she has to make do with jamming down on the "shut off" button so hard that she thinks she might just have sprained her finger.

Chapter Three Hundred and Ten

She doesn't think she stops muttering curses under her breath until she's actually knocking on the door of Spike and Drusilla's house. She's in full-on rant mode, carrying on a conversation with an invisible Wesley that has people edging away from her as she stalks past, in case crazy is catching.

She's about to give up making herself heard over the music and just go in when there's a raucous scream from a life-sized scarecrow decorating the steps that turns out to be Larry, one of Xander's ex-boyfriends, in costume.

"Joke," he gasps out, laughing so hard he falls off the steps.

"Yeah, you're a laugh riot," she snarls at him when her heartbeat's back to normal.

"Hey, take it easy." He looks a bit hurt and stands up, pushing past her to go inside.

She reaches out and pats his arm awkwardly. "Sorry. Just a bit pissed-off with life right now."

He gives her a stiff nod and then relents and opens the door for her. "You need a drink," he tells her before dropping a plastic spider down the back of her neck.

It's not bad advice and by the time she works her way through the crowd to the bar she's already marked down three possibilities for some revenge sex. She chugs down a glass of bright red punch that's less gross than she expected, with the smooth burn of vodka under the tart fruitiness, refills her glass, and fixes a glittering smile on her face.

"Will you purr if I tickle you, pussy?"

Heart-stopping moments really shouldn't come this close together. She turns in a fast spin and spills her drink down Spike's black shirt, making him yelp as the cold liquid drenches him. Fuck. Wrong Englishman drawling in her ear.

"God, I'm sorry!" she says. "I just -"

He starts to laugh, snatching up a napkin and blotting off his shirt. "'S'all right, pet," he assures her. "I picked black on purpose; doesn't show the spills. Dru already got me with a Bloody Mary, but she said that was part of the costume."

He's come as a vampire, all black cloak and frilled shirt, clinging damply to him now. The upstanding collar of his cloak frames his face and makes his blue eyes bluer.

Still not as blue as - No. So not going there.

"Help a girl out, Spike?" she says abruptly. "Got an itch wants scratching. One night only offer. Anyone here unattached and halfway-hot who won't expect me to call him in the morning?"

One dark eyebrow lifts lazily, bringing back memories. Fuck, do they teach them that trick at school over there?

"You serious?" he asks, leaning in to shout into her ear.

She nods firmly. "Totally. If I don't get some, I'm gonna, I don't know..." She waves her hand airily. "Explode. Tiny, little pieces. Pieces of Faith." That strikes her as funny, and she starts to giggle. "Fuck, what's in this stuff?" she asks, studying her glass and then shrugging and draining the dregs.

Spike's cool hand closes around her wrist as she reaches for the ladle to refill it. "Leave that," he says. "Got something better."

"Much better," says a voice behind her. Faith turns and sees Drusilla smiling mysteriously, dressed in a long white dress that looks vaguely like a Victorian nightdress.

Something better turns out to be weed, good stuff, that settles down and makes itself at home in her head, smoothing out all the rough, ragged edges of frustration and helpless anger. She leans back amongst the pillows that Dru's heaped at the top of her huge, high bed - and why is she not surprised it's a four-poster? - and holds court as a select few wander in and out to share the joints Spike's rolling and the noise of the party swells and recedes like the sea. And there's a reason why she's so sure she can hear the sea because it's connected to the taste in her mouth and the music's all wrong but she's drifting off to sleep so it doesn't really matter...

She wakes to giggles on a gently shifting bed, and fuck; Spike and Dru are totally doing the deed a foot away. The house is silent and it feels late, at the point where night's in charge and daylight's a distant memory, not an approaching event. A dozen candles send flickering golden light over two pale bodies and she focuses on Drusilla's slender hand, red-tipped nails clawing down Spike's back as she mewls and whimpers in time with his slow, lazy thrusts.

"Shit," Faith mumbles. "God, I'm sorry. I'll just -"

It wasn't the best time to tell them she's awake she realizes hazily as Spike shudders and pauses, turning his head to give her a tight smile.

"Got bored waiting for you to wake up," he whispers, but it's loud enough that she feels it echo in her head.

Drusilla pushes him off her and gives this sinuous little wriggle that puts her within reach of Faith. He doesn't seem to mind, although his cock, slicked and shiny-wet, looks painfully hard. As Faith stares, still too dream-caught to look away, he runs his hand along it, touching the tip of his curled tongue to his top lip in a leer that's strangely innocent.

"You still want to play?" he asks. "Because I'm willing and Dru doesn't mind sharing, if you don't." There's a seriousness about him now and he crawls to her so her vision's filled with their faces as they stare down at her. "Got some rules though..."

"Rules?" she says thickly. She knows about those...

Drusilla's mouth tastes hers in a brief, swift kiss and she blinks at her in surprise, bringing up her hand to explore the tingle it left on her lips. "Oh, yes..." The satin slither of Drusilla's hair tickles her arm. "Rules make it so much more fun." She smiles back over her shoulder at Spike, arching her back so her small, round breasts push up impudently. "Especially when they get broken."

There's something... familiar about the look they share and she realizes, with a pang, that it's the complicity of trust and understanding she thought she had once.

"Oh, I don't think Faith's gonna be breaking these rules," Spike murmurs, stroking the back of his hand across Drusilla's nipple. "Real simple they are, pet." He stares at Faith, as if gauging her possible reaction, and then nods. "I'm with Dru," he tells her, not unkindly. "Me 'n her, it's special. But we like to play with people we trust, and we like you. One night to cheer you up and maybe it'll work, maybe it won't... no hard feelings and no..."

"Expectations," Drusilla says, biting down on Spike's shoulder and splitting the single word into four separate syllables.

"But you can say 'no' and the couch is free," Spike adds. "We kicked everyone else out but you're welcome to stay."

And it's blunt and uncompromising and it's just what she fucking wants right now, part of her anyway. To fuck and sigh and moan, to feel her body climb up high and crash back in a glorious mess. To feel hands not hers on a body that's restless with need these days, always.

"Bed looks big enough for three," she tells them. "And your couch is lumpy."

They smile at her but they're still waiting, not expectant and she knows they want more.

"I'll play by your rules," she says, starting to tug at the zip that's keeping her wrapped-up in clothes, "and I'm so not looking for more than this. But you've gotta suit up -" she nods at Spike with a pointed, downward stare, "and you do anything I don't like, I get to say 'stop', OK?"

Spike shrugs and leans over to rummage in the bedside table. "I'm clean, but fine by me," he says.

Drusilla purses her lips, watching Faith skin out of her dress and undies. "Keep the cat ears on," she says imperiously.

Faith grins. "Why not?"

Chapter Three Hundred and Eleven


She doesn’t even remember peeling off her stockings and stepping out of her dress. That and every other moment has already started to warp and blur, buckling like old film that’s been left in the canister too long and dries to dust when you try to hold it in your hands. This is something momentary, not meant to last, and she knows it. It’s weird to have nostalgia for something that hasn’t even happened yet, but there you go. Maybe it’s the residual THC talking.

She stands there somewhat awkwardly for a moment before Dru looks at her admiringly and whispers, “Skyclad, so pretty,” punctuating it with this girlish little giggle that puts Faith entirely at ease. Dru wraps her arm sinuously around Faith’s waist, pulling her in towards the center of the bed. The center of this little —whatever it is. If she was going to feel nervous about this at all that breaks the spell somehow, and she finds herself wrapped up between them. It’s not an uncomfortable place to be —they’ve invited her in after all, and it’s with a generosity and a lack of guile that she hadn’t known she’d craved.

At first it’s not a choreography, exactly; more like a chaos. Hands are roaming everywhere at once; she can feel Spike’s cock nudging in between her legs as he moves closer to kiss her shoulder and his arm snakes around so he can see how wet she is. He and Dru both get there at the same time and they share another conspiratorial look. “Faith’s been a naughty kitty, watching us like that,” Dru says soberly. “Got her all wet.”

“That it did. Do we punish her?”

Dru smiles deviously. “Shall we take away her saucer of milk, Spike? Or do we let her have the cream?”

“I think we let her have anything she wants,” he murmurs, gently turning Faith around to face him and pulling her close for a kiss. And he knows how to kiss —every flick of his agile tongue against hers a reminder of what it’ll be like when he’s going down on her, of how he’s going to fuck her. He’s all lithe, angular muscle and different enough from Wes that it’s reassuring somehow.

“Want you both to fuck me,” she whispers when she comes up for air, and nothing more has to be said. And they’re certainly not in any rush; this is the slow dance at the end of the party, and no-one’s taken the lead yet. Faith’s starting to wonder if Dru’s got them under a spell because it’s all so delirious; then she remembers the punch and the really good weed and it’s no wonder every touch upon her too-sensitive skin makes her shiver even though she’s warmed by the glow of all those candles; their bodies are in such close proximity she can feel the heat pouring off all of them.

It’s a comfort, really. Sounds weird but it’s true.  

Teeth and tongue and fingers everywhere and she’s the focal point; she feels like a queen when she’s sprawled out across them, legs spread, breathing just a little labored.

“What next, pet?” Spike drawls in her ear, and God, he’s so not Wes but he’s certainly got it, ‘cause his insinuating tone goes straight to her clit. Without thinking, she arches her back and thrusts out her ass. She’s just about to answer with something flippant and bratty like, “Your cock in my ass,” when—

It only takes a split second for the flat of Spike’s hand to connect with her ass with a decisive thwap! —but everything’s been so slow and languid before this that she’s just not ready for it. She lets out this sharp little cry and Spike pulls back abruptly, like he’s afraid to touch her until she gives him some sort of sign.

And she doesn’t give one. She can’t seem to move —she’s frozen in position. Her mind’s racing with a million thoughts but she can’t will herself to do a fucking thing. This is what she wanted isn’t it? And yet it’s not the same. Oh, the attendant, delicious sting that follows soon thereafter is similar enough and if she could just stop thinking for one goddamn second, she could enjoy this. She deserves it, even. She does. But when she closes her eyes it’s his hand she sees, his long-fingered, elegant hand poised in mid-air to—

Thought and action both seem to have gone out the window when she bursts into tears. Messy, mascara-running-everywhere tears. Oh, yeah, good one, Faith, she thinks ruefully —first friendly, no-strings attached threeway and you go all emotional wreck on them. Great strategy, there. Maybe it was too much to think she could do this so casually, or that she could deal with some pale echo of everything she had with Wes. Even if it’s not even an echo —it’s just different. And that in and of itself feels like another loss.

She finds herself stammering out this muddled apology even as she’s trying to stop these choking little sobs that seem to be welling up from somewhere she can’t reach, can’t simply override the signal with rationalization. She half expects them to exile her to the couch, but Dru just eases her down onto the pillows, cooing “Shh, shh,” fingers brushing restlessly against Faith’s skin all the while. She’s almost surprised to find herself electrified by the touch even if her brain is trying hard to reject it. This should be weird, shouldn’t it?

She starts to protest, albeit feebly —“You don’t have to—" but she can’t even finish the thought. What? Take care of me? Make me come? But Dru’s letting her fingers trace slow, graceful whorls around her clit and dipping them experimentally into her wet cunt and she’s starting to go a little non-verbal and really not care if it’s weird or not. It just is.

“Shhh,” Dru says again, her fingers insinuating themselves deeper into her pussy, “Consider it a gift.”

“I certainly do,” adds Spike appreciatively, sprawling back against the pillows and lazily stroking his cock, seemingly content, at least momentarily, to watch.

“You shh too, Spike.” Dru shoots him a glare but Faith’s really, really not caring. ‘Cause, fuck, no-one’s going to make her wait for this orgasm. And she’s still feeling kinda stoned, which gives everything a decidedly unreal quality —like, maybe any second she’s going to wake up with a start, wondering where the hell a fantasy that didn’t involve Wes came from.

Dru kisses Faith again, lingering this time, her tongue flickering against hers. The kiss is certainly real enough— not yearning, but sweet. She kisses Dru back with a tentativeness that seems to amuse Dru more than anything else. “Such a charm,” she hums against Faith’s parted lips, pinching her nipple almost casually between her fingers while she fucks her with her other hand. Dru’s nimble fingers push upwards, finding that sweet spot and locking in firmly; Faith can’t help but arch her hips forward to meet them. Been so long since anyone cared enough to really get her off—

Nothing is in her mind now but the insistent need to come, and she’s skirting the periphery. The room has receded; she’s dimly aware of Spike’s presence but everything is clouded by this haze of want. There’s a desperate edge to it, and she’s not worrying about decorum or anything as she feverishly thrusts against Dru’s hand. “That’s it,” Dru purrs, skirting her nipple slowly with her tongue one moment and capriciously biting down the next. The little white-hot jolt of pain is just what Faith needs; it shoots right to her clit and she’s coming abruptly in a flurry of breathless “oh’s,” thrashing to one side as she grips the sheets.

Dru looks very pleased indeed. “Made you see the stars,” she says with more than a hint of self-satisfaction. She places a kiss on Faith’s beleaguered clit before she gently removes her fingers from her cunt.  

Chapter Three Hundred and Twelve

"If I don't get to come soon..." Spike says in this throaty, plaintive murmur that makes Dru smile slowly as she brings her fingers up and licks them clean. Faith turns her head and sees Spike shudder, closing his eyes as Dru's sticky-wet fingers slide between her lips.

"You're trying to kill me, right?" he says, lying back, arms spread dramatically wide. Faith doesn't think it's coincidence that his hand curls around hers, giving it a comforting squeeze before releasing her.

Drusilla arches her eyebrow and looks at Faith. "He was good, waiting, wasn't he?" she asks.

Faith nods, which is about all she's capable of right then. "Yeah..."

"But he made you squeak like a mouse and you're a cat," Drusilla says reprovingly, reaching out and slipping those damn cat ears off Faith. She puts them on and adjusts them with careful fingers. "Why did you squeak, little mouse?"

"Yeah, sorry, 'bout that," Spike says, sounding the littlest bit rueful. "Should've asked, maybe, but –"

"But what?" Faith says, struggling up so she's half-sitting. "And you don't need to apologize. It –" She hesitates and then shrugs. "Wasn't what you did that got me crying. I'm – I like that. I get off on it, OK?" God, if they look at her like Xander does, like she's a freak – But there's nothing but interest and the smallest amount of amusement in their eyes.

"Well, yeah," Spike says. He pushes Faith onto her side with a gentle hand and runs the tip of his finger slowly over the four faint stripes on her ass. "We know."

She's torn between a fresh flush of arousal and the urge to wriggle away because she can't imagine Wesley approving of this, of any of it, and conflicted is a mild word for what's she feeling.

"Yeah. Well the guy who did that left," she says shortly, flipping over to her back and glaring at Spike. "And the fucker's not interested in coming back."

"Want to talk about it?" Spike asks, but he's already glancing over at Dru, who's running her wet fingertips over her nipples and cooing approvingly when they harden.

She laughs. "Sure. Maybe. But not now."

Spike nods, his hand going out to stroke along Dru's leg. "Not now," he agrees.

"No," Drusilla whispers, as if she's completing an incantation. "Not now."

***

She wakes up on the couch and, yeah, it's lumpy, but it's where she belongs. Not that Spike and Dru had made her feel unwelcome; she'd just got up to pee and when she came back and saw them snuggled and curled up and complete she didn't want to disturb them.

Besides, they'd sprawled out so there wasn't any room for her.

So she'd given Spike's lean line of back and ass one last, appreciative look and finished off the night under a blanket that might not have been a cashmere throw but was still soft and warm.

Dru and Spike wake up and give her sleepy, sweet smiles because she's made coffee. She stays long enough to be sure they're cool with what happened – and didn't happen – and then makes getting up to leave noises when Dru vanishes into the shower.

"Hang about," Spike says, yawning widely and going to sit on the couch with his third cup of coffee. "Wanted to ask you –"

"What?" Faith says. She wants to go now, get home and run the deepest, hottest bath possible so she can cry and pretend it's steam and sweat getting her face wet.

"This bloke, the one who left... Wesley."

"What about him?" She can't help the defensive tone to her voice. "He's a fucked-up bastard who wouldn't know how to be happy if you gave him a Dummies Guide to Smiling."

Spike ignores the bitchiness. "You said last night –" And God, how much can he remember? Because she'd told them way too fucking much when the candles had dimmed to scented puddles of wax and they'd put her between them again, their clasped hands resting lightly on the smooth swell of her mound, her head snuggled into Dru's shoulder.

"You said he was your first one you played with. That you didn't know you liked it until you met him."

She nods reluctantly, eyes going around the room, locating her backpack, her coat. So not a discussion for first thing in the morning. Well, it's gone eleven, but that's still technically morning, right?

"Sounds to me like he took advantage of you," Spike says severely and fuck, he's Xander's fucking soul mate.

"He fucking didn't," she hisses. "He thinks he did, so does Xander, so does my mom, so does the whole fucking world, but guess what? I'm the only one who gets to say that and he didn't, OK?"

"Didn't give you a safe word," Spike says. "Not until he fucked-up good and proper." He squints at her. "And you didn't know enough to know you needed one."

"You got a point here?" she demands.

Spike stands up and stretches, with his shirt riding up so she can see his bare stomach. It's flat and hard and she's fairly sure she kissed it at some point last night, but now she doesn't do more than glance and look away.

"Yeah. You're going to want it again, I can tell. Next guy might not be such a prince." There's a sarcastic twist to his words but she sets her mouth firmly. God knows why she's defending Wesley but she's so fucking tired of people thinking they know what's best for her. "So here –" He walks over to a bookshelf and crouches down, running his fingers along the books. "Borrow these; keep 'em if you like," he says. "Always good to know what you're getting yourself into, pet."

She stares at the covers, all bare bodies and rope, rubber and whips, and fuck, this is way beyond anything – "Thanks," she says weakly, burying them deep in her backpack.

"Take care, love," he says, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "You can let yourself out, right?" He's skinning out of his shirt and sauntering in the direction of the shower before she's finished nodding.

***

It's not until she emerges from the bath, skin scarlet and tears dried, that she remembers her phone. It's still where she tossed it, on top of her bed, and she turns it back on, intending to call Xander and see how his party in the city had gone.

She's got voice mail and she grins, because it's gotta be from Xander, the night before, drunk and babbling and demanding to know where the hell she is because it's only three am. Hopefully not singing, because that's never good...

"Faith, your ability to transform from charming conversationalist to Billingsgate fishwife is impressive, but might I suggest that you save it for such time as I deserve your displeasure?"

The phone cracks as her fingers clench on it. Wesley? Wesley called her back? What the fuck? And what in God's name is a –

"If you'd restrained yourself for long enough to allow me to finish –" He's sounding so fucking pissed. Really, really annoyed, voice crackling and cold. "- you'd have discovered that I'm flying back to England tomorrow, on business. I won't be here next Sunday."

There's a pause and she thinks he left it to allow her to moan, 'Oh, fuck' three times in a rising, anguished whimper.

"I can't say that I'm pleased with your outburst, Faith," he continues, but somehow he sounds softer. "But I – yes, I blame myself a little. My reluctance to engage you in conversation made me less than clear and – it's very silly of me to do that, isn't it? To pretend that if I say no more than a few words, we're not conversing?"

"Really fucking is," she whispers as if he can hear her.

"I'll be back a week on Tuesday," he says. "I – " There's a pause and she can hear him swallow and he's sounding so fucking nervous now that she starts to panic. God, he's not planning on going back for good, is he? "I'm taking some personal time and going to see my mother. This, with you, with us – it's made me see –" His voice firms up, gets cool again. "I have this device. I believe it's called a Blackberry." There's a sort of bemused pride there, and Wes getting all goofy over having the latest gadget would be so fucking cute if she wasn't weeping silently. "So I'll be able to get any emails you care to send me." There's a question mark hovering at the end there, as if he doesn't want to lose contact with her even for that short a time.

"I'm sorry about Sunday," he says. "I look forward to you reading to me, you know. I'll miss – I'll miss that. Good bye then, Faith." There's another pause and then he repeats, "Good bye," and hangs up.

Chapter Three Hundred and Thirteen

All she wants to do is drag herself into some dark, dank corner like a little furry animal that's just been mown down in a high speed collision on the freeway so she can die slowly and painfully.

If only she hadn't switched off her phone. If only she hadn't got drunk and stoned and mercy humped by Spike and Dru. If only Wes hadn't taken over four months to start acting like a human being with, like, emotions and shit. If only, if only, if only… she feels like she could choke on if only.

And now that she's been given an engraved invitation to email him, she can't even log on to gmail to check on the current state of her penis enlargement spams because she knows that she'll press down on the 'w' and his address will write itself and she won't be able to help herself. Which is just how it goes with Wes. And that door is going to slam shut with a resounding thud the minute she 'fesses up that she did just what she told him she'd do. In fact, she didn't even fuck the first half decent guy; she got it totally on with a more than half decent girl too. She's like the biggest ho in Hoville, population 1.

Not like anyone leaves her alone for longer than a freaking second so she can wallow in how fucking stupid she is. In how she's lost him all over again when she hadn't even got him back. Darla and Xander are stereophonically quacking on about her birthday on Friday and she's expected to be an active participant in gift possibilities, venue decisions and guest lists.

"It's no big deal," she hisses down the phone to Xander on Thursday morning. "I'm a year older, big fucking whoop."

"Not getting out of your birthday spanking," Xander giggles even though it's like the opposite of funny and she's told him a 100 times before that she's not ready to make jokes about her broken heart until at least 2010.

Luckily Monty's working on this big case which is freaking him out. Mrs Rosenberg has to ring her twenty times a day with special instructions on how to hand hold her husband who still hates having to go to court and she's happy to work late, just to get away from Darla who keeps thrusting these lame Delias catalogues in front of her and asking her to shove some Post-It notes on the appropriate pages.

They double tag her on Thursday morning by turning up at the office and standing in front of her desk like some two-headed birthday demon.

"We just want you to have a special day, Faithy."

"After the year you've had with the… and the…, y'know?"

"And I've found this cute little restaurant but we need to make reservations today."

"And did I mention about the birthday spankings?"

"There was some really cute stuff in that Delias catalogue. You'd look adorable in the Hello Kitty pyjama set."

It couldn't get any worse. She's got her head clutched in her hands as they spew out birthday suggestions like they've done a few lines of speed before they turned up. Then Monty comes out of his office to see why the front desk has been taken over by the Party Planners from hell and…

"Mrs R can make you a special birthday cake. A chocolate one. You like chocolate, don’t you, sweetheart?"

Even Wes was never this relentless, which just makes her feel even more woe-is-me than she had been. Which really takes some doing.

"Fine!" she snaps, standing up and pushing her chair back. "This is how it's gonna go down. I'll go to the restaurant, Mom. I'll email you a guest list at lunchtime. Xander, if you make one more crack about birthday spankings then you're going to have to get used to life without your kneecaps. Monty, I'd love a chocolate cake and for my present, I want…"

I want Wes to come back. I want him to take me away from here. I want him to promise that he'll never leave me again. I want him to forgive me for all the crazy shit I've pulled. I want him…

"I want a tattoo."

The words pop out of her mouth like a bullet from a gun. No way is Darla going to go for that, which is precisely why she said it. Might shut her up for longer than a second.

But all she does is frown before tilting her chin up and saying bravely, "Well, I guess. Maybe something tasteful like a dolphin on your ankle. Do we need to make an appointment for that too?"



It's past 10 when she gets home, which means time and a half in her going away fund and a Hot Pocket in a hot bath.

Darla's out with the boyfriend so she's saved another round of birthday boredom and all she wants to do after she's emerged from the bath all pink and about 23% more relaxed is angst about not being to email Wes because she's ruined everything and decide what her tattoo should be. One thing she knows with absolute certainty. It sure as shit ain't gonna be a tasteful dolphin on her ankle.

But her plans for flopping on her bed and maybe having a therapeutic weep are ruined by the bigass box already perched on it. And bigass boxes have taken on a whole new meaning in the last couple of weeks. It's from Wes. She knows that before she even sees her name and address carefully printed out in his elegant script. Overnighted from the mother country and with "Not to be opened until November 5th, Faith" written on it in a red sharpie.

It's pretty sick to feel herself get wet from eight red words. But that's her body's usual reaction when he gives her an order and four months without him barking them out, sighing them against her skin, purring them into the office intercom have done little to change that.

She can't even sit on the bed now, just in case she accidentally brushes against the box and gets overwhelmed by the urge to tear away the tape and cardboard. Instead she delves under the bed for the books that Spike lent her, plus her own copy of Neruda's 100 Love Sonnets because it's been, what? Like at least three days since she read any of them and disappears into the lounge.

She's back in her room at midnight precisely. She knows exactly what her tattoo is going to be.  And before she can open the box, she's snagging a highlighter so she can underline one of the passages in the book she's been flicking through:


 A safeword is just a communication tool, nothing more, nothing less. If you're  playing intensely, it may feel hard  to stop the scene, to come back from the edge via a safeword... but if you need  to, that's what they're for.  Some tops deliberately push their bottoms until their bottoms call safeword; this way, the bottom gets the  experience of using it. A safeword that's never used can seem unusable, which  isn't a good property for a  safeword.

She nods in agreement. And runs the highlighter over another paragraph a little bit further down:

Some partners find their need for a safeword gradually diminishes as they come to know each other better. Some people do SM in which the bottom  doesn't want to have a verbal escape route, for the duration of the scene.  (This "no-safeword" play is also  sometimes called "edge play.") One thing that you will learn about the  BDSM scene is that styles vary wildly, and people's experiences are astonishingly diverse. But for many people beginning their explorations  (and many who've explored enormously), safewords have proved very helpful.

She shoves the books back under her bed because who knows when Darla might be on a cleaning kick and what do you know? It's 12.03 am. Officially her birthday and she's not breaking any rules and even if she was, Wes isn't here to administer a birthday spanking. Though the box looks plenty big enough for him to post himself over the Atlantic. Though you'd have thought he'd have punched in some airholes.

But Wes isn't in the box. There's no room because it's full to bursting with like a gazillion and one British candy bars in brightly coloured, foil wrappers. They have weird names like Flake and Double Decker. And even the ones that sound familiar like Snickers don't taste the same. She knows that because she's already got one crammed into her mouth and it's so more chocolatey and yummy that it's lame American looky-likey that she's moaning out loud.

Right at the bottom are ten tubes of Smarties which don't make her cry. They just make her go a teeny bit misty-eyed as she remembers sprawling out on his couch, adorned in them and blindfolded as he kissed them off her.

She's never seen so much chocolate in her life outside of the supermarket and she clutches great, greedy handfuls of it and groans ecstatically at the thought of getting so fat that she won't be able to leave the house. Once she's done squirreling it away in all of her secret hidey places, she gets to the A4 manila envelope that's bulging promisingly. There's a wallet of photographs of an ivy-strewn, red brick house with a big gravel drive like something out of one of those BBC America period dramas. There's a pristine garden with an ornamental lake and a goddamn maze. All that's missing is a chick with a bonnet. Wes has neatly labelled the back of each one, including the snaps of these freckle faced, gap-toothed kids who he must have got from central casting. "Alfie, 9, second cousin", "Rollo, 5, second cousin", "Daisy, 3, first cousin, once removed." And there's also a snarling, sullen goth giving the camera the finger, which Wes has noted with a sardonic, "Molly, 14, allegedly my cousin's eldest daughter though we believe that she was swapped at birth."

She traces her fingers over their faces, catching a glimpse of faded, denim blue eyes, the hint of a cheekbone, a crooked smile which prove the family resemblance and make her feel closer to him. Do they call him Wes? Does he get pissy with them when they're being all bratty? Or does he tease them gently and make them eat all their veggies with the promise of a… like, Double Decker, if they clean their plates?

There's also a CD of a band called Goldie Looking Chain, with a piece of paper wedged into the sleeve: "The shop assistant assured me that this was 'sick'". I can only apologise in advance."

But what she's really after is the pale blue envelope that's stiff with what can only be a birthday card in it. There's a black and white photo from an old issue of British Vogue on the front of some impossibly elegant, swan-necked girl in a black dress that looks a little bit like the three dresses hanging in the back of her closet. Inside he's written:

Dear Faith

Please don't eat the chocolate all at once – I'm sure you never guessed that I knew all about your secret candy stash. I thought you might like to see where I grew up. And some pictures of my extended family who seem to have descended on us.
I hope you have a truly wonderful birthday. I'm sure we'll speak soon.

Wes

She holds the card up just to make sure that there isn't some squashed 'x' after his name but it's infuriatingly blank. Then she has to eat another two bars of Orange Kit Kat while she scrutinizes the card for hidden meanings. Finally she falls asleep, feeling vaguely nauseous, but clutching the card in her hand.


It's hard to get out of the house on time the next morning. Darla insists on staggering into her room at the crack of dawn after a night of… God, so not going there, with her new boyfriend, and singing an off-key Happy Birthday before giving her a gift certificate for Borders and a birthday card with details of her appointment at the tattoo place for Saturday afternoon.

"I know your birthdays have been pretty crappy, sweetie," she says over a breakfast of slightly stale doughnuts and coffee. "I wanted this one to be different, y'know?"

And maybe the one good thing that's come out of all of this is that she doesn't hate Darla anymore. Not even close. She kinda loves her. She's been there for Faith over the last few months, which doesn't exactly make up for 18 years of alcohol soaked misery but it's a start.

"Thanks, Mom," she croaks and it doesn't feel weird anymore to get up and give Darla a hug. Especially when now she doesn't stink of vodka, just big, whiffy amounts of J-Lo Glow.

Finally she's at work. Monty's been tucked behind his desk with a pot of contraband coffee and a Twix courtesy of Wes and she can open her email account.

It takes a good five minutes to think about typing in his address but as soon as her fingers hit the keys she's off.


Dear Wes

Well, happy birthday to me. Sorry I haven't been in touch before now. Some stuff came up that I had to deal with.
Thanks for calling me back and I'm sorry that I got so pissed at you but you kinda have to realize that you haven't given me a lot to work with over the last few months. Really glad you called. And what's with the Blackberry? Have you turned into some techno geek while my back was turned?
I got the box yesterday. Didn't open it until 12.03, which was technically my birthday. Man, all that chocolate! I swear I've put on about five pounds. I really love the Orange Kit Kats, though three of them after a Hot Pocket makes you feel a little pukey.
And I don't know what you mean with the 'secret candy stash.' (Guess you found the pile of Twinkies I hid at the back of the linen closet.)
Your house looks really swank. Did you used to get lost in the maze when you were a kid? Oh yeah, your little cousins look cute though I don't think that Molly got the memo that goth is, like, totally over.
I'm going out for dinner tonight with Darla and Xander and some people from the diner. Plus Spike and Dru who are some new friends I've made. Then tomorrow I'm going to get my birthday present. It's a tattoo. Yeah, Wes. 'Fraid so. But it's going to look wicked cool and I really want one so I'm gonna permanently mark my lily white flesh and there's not much you can do about it.
Hope you're having a good time and the stuff with your Mom isn't too weird.
Better go now – but I'm thinking about what I'm going to read for you on Sunday week.

Have a safe flight back to NY.

Faith

She reads it over before she hits 'send' and feels way proud of herself for managing to get through a whole email without swearing at him. Or telling him that she can come without him. Or, fuck, that she'd much rather have come with him.

Then she hears Monty whimper something about "these damn depositions. Faith, sweetheart, I'm getting all muddled up," and she's back on the clock.

Chapter Three Hundred and Fourteen

Helping Monty get through all the depositions that afternoon with an extreme sugar buzz is an experience she'd rather not repeat, even if Mrs. Rosenberg's cake is about the most decadent thing she's ever eaten. It's light and fluffy and weighted down by what seems like ten pounds of chocolate buttercream frosting with swags of pink piped icing around the edges and even a little pink flower nestled against the 'F' in the squiggly pink icing that reads 'Happy Birthday Faith!”

He'd taken her to a long lunch at a locally-owned seafood place frequented by businessmen of a certain age, the kind who don't blink at ordering oysters and martinis in the middle of the day. Mrs. R was in the office when they returned, tutting about the coffee pot she'd found behind Monty's desk, but all was forgiven between the two of them with a squishy hug and an flurry of endearments and pet names. Faith can't help but feel a little twinge of jealousy, but that's all washed away too as they present her with the cake and exhort her to blow out all the candles and make a wish.

She hopes it's okay that she's making the same wish in her head over and over again today when she blows out the candles, and she just smiles enigmatically when Mrs. R gives her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and says she hopes it comes true.



Even though she'd given Xander the list of people to invite, she's surprised to see them all there when she arrives, gathered around a giant table in the back room of Monica's Soul Food, already sipping sweet tea and lemonade and digging into the bread baskets, slathering sweet butter on thick slabs of still-warm cornbread. Wide-eyed and quiet Tara, one of the lunchtime waitresses from the diner, is nodding politely at Spike. Faith guesses, based on his gesticulations, that he's yammering the poor girl's ear off about Grand Theft Auto or the latest trendy band he'd read about on Pitchfork, or possibly both at once. Dru and Xander are mulling over the menu, discussing their mutual dislike of chicken fried steak with cream gravy and collard greens, while at the furthest end of the table Darla and her boyfriend eye Billy suspiciously – he's regaling them with some tale of food service gone awry, do doubt. She just hopes it doesn't turn their stomachs for dinner, 'cause the food at the place is wicked good. She acted surprised, of course, when Xander had told her the address. She didn't have the heart to tell him that she'd been there plenty of times with Wes, who had a fondness for Monica's special  liver and onions and the decadent raspberry cobbler slathered with homemade vanilla ice cream.



Someone gets her home – Xander most likely, though she seems to remember hearing Spike's voice as her head hit the pillow, thankfully right before she passed out. After dinner, Darla and her suitor disappeared, and the rest of her guests dragged her to bar after bar after bar, finally ending up on the thumpy dance floor of a cheesy dance club that only played top-40 remixes -- and if she's not mistaken, at some point Xander and Spike were slam dancing to Destiny's Child while Billy and Dru waltzed around them, giggling and tripping over their feet. At any rate, it's all just a happy blur of swirling lights and joints sneaked in back alleys now; rows of potent shots with deceptively sweet names that bartenders were only too happy to pour out for her for free, once her wild entourage shrieked that it was her birthday. Thankfully, none of them bothered to card her.

Though, now, as the sun streams through the thin curtains right in her eyes and her mouth tastes pasty and gross, she can't help but think that maybe those last two Flaming Cherry Bomb shots that she'd done with Dru weren't such a good idea after all.

“Wake up, Faithy!” Darla trills, far too chipper for 9:30 on a Saturday morning as she whips the curtains open. “You'd better shake a leg if you're gonna get to the tattoo place on time.”



She'd always expected that she'd get her first tattoo in the middle of the night, on a drunken bender, maybe, that ended with her and Xander ponying up for matching tribal armbands and then completely regretting it the next day -- but eventually learning to learning to love the silly, tacky design that came right off a sheet of flash tacked to the wall.

This is a much more serious business, though. Despite her hasty decision to get the thing, when she'd realized what she wanted, it definitely seemed like the right thing to do. And when she's shoving the heavy door of the tattoo parlor at 11 am, double caramel latte in hand and handfuls of Wes' birthday candy in her handbag and sees the dude she's got the appointment with, the butterflies in her stomach are strangely calmed. Somehow it all just feels right, and she's glad of that. He's positively tiny and has a sweet look about him, despite the sleeves inked on his arms and up over his neck.

“Faith, right?” he says.

She nods, crossing the cavernous room to his station. “Hey. You're Oz?”

“One and only.” He smiles, gesturing for her to have a seat on the vinyl-covered bench. “Not too early for you?” he asks, eyeing her giant latte.

“No, no. I'm good. Been up for hours.” A lie – it's been more like an hour, but hey, who's counting?

He fires off a string of questions. Well, fires is the wrong word, as Oz is about the most mellow person she's ever encountered. “Had breakfast? Take any aspirin? No Bloody Marys this morning, or swigs of courage from a flask in that bag of yours?”

“Uh, yes... no... and no... There's just candy in there.” she stammers. “But, uh, I was out drinking last night...”

He nods slowly, thinks a bit before answering. “You're fine. It'd be another story if you came in here reeking still, though. Just don't want you bleeding too much. All that stuff thins your blood. Well, breakfast doesn't. Breakfast keeps you from passing out.” She laughs, liking his dry sense of humor, and although his economy with words isn't totally reminiscent of Wes, it's a welcome reprieve after all the yammering and shit-talking that had gone on the night before.

Sometime during the evening, Tara had pulled her aside and had warned her that the spot she'd chosen – the small of her back, right above her ass - was a pretty painful place There wasn't a lot of fat there to absorb the shock of the needles and there was the fact that it was probably one of the most sensitive areas of her body, which meant only one thing – tons of nerve endings there, all starved for attention since Wes' departure. But, Tara had reminded her, a high tolerance for pain would probably make the whole process go a little more smoothly.

Of course, it's still gonna hurt, love – no matter how much you can take. But don't worry, our mate'll look after you, he's a good sort... Spike had drawled at her with a broad wink, eavesdropping on the conversation

With a start, she realizes she's been lost in thought and shakes her head slightly, smiling at Oz. “Sorry, zoned out there. I'm a little nervous...” Which, she wasn't really, but it was a good cover.

“You're not. I can tell – bet you'll fall asleep while I'm working.” His eyes are wide and deadly serious, and she can't tell if he's fucking with her or not. “So, what's the plan?”

“You can do words, right?” she asks, setting down her coffee and pulling a manila folder out of her bag.

“Sure; just as long as I've got something to go by, I can pretty much do anything...” He takes the sheet she's holding out to him. He smiles as he reads the words, nodding slightly. “Nice. Big Neruda fan?”

“Something like that...”

“We'll have to blow this up a little though, so it's not so small...”

“That's cool,” she says following him to the back office where a tiny copy machine whirrs to life when he hits a button. “Not too big, though.”

He just nods gravely, and she watches as he carefully resizes the text. She'd found the sheet of cream bond paper tucked in one of the cavernous inside pockets of her Emily Strange backpack one day not long after Wes had left, and even though it had made her cry back then, she couldn't bear to throw it away. It was the only thing she had that she'd typed on his trusty Selectric. And even though it definitely wasn't work related, it was still special. She could even remember the day she'd typed the line over and over – it had been when the office was empty and quiet the first time he'd gone to New York, and she'd filled the day typing random sentences over and over, timing herself, just to see how fast she could go. This page was blank, save one simple line of Neruda's words, the ones that had hit her heart hardest.


“That look good to you?” Oz shows her the words, resized 1/2 an inch high. Even just blown up to that size, the edges of the letters are ragged, imperfect.

“Yeah, it's just right.” She smiles, and he immediately sets to making a carbon copy transfer (which she finds so very appropriate) -- the first step in permanently etching a line from Sonnet XVII on her flesh.

“And in black, I take it?”

“Absolutely. Wouldn't have it any other way.”



Ok, yeah. It hurts. Of course it does. Hurts like a motherfucker. The oscillating needles feel like the tiny teeth of a little mouth that's biting into her flesh over and over again, sucking out bit by bit the stray streaks of pain that still live in her body. The broken promises that sit in a thorny ring around her heart, the knots in her neck he's not there to smooth away, the permanent ache to touch him that's buried in her fingertips.

But the noise of the tattoo gun is the most annoying part, especially after the lower half of her body has basically gone numb. She's slung on her belly over the bench: Shirt hiked up, pants off, and underpants pulled down, but not all the way, of course. Every time Oz needs a little break, she's allowed to have a bite or two of candy (which is turning out to be a lifesaver – breakfast may keep her from passing out, but the English Mars bar keeps her from throwing up) before he orders her to hold perfectly still again. Even though she's a little rusty, that part's pretty easy.

It takes longer than she expected too, and so she's surprised, after about 45 minutes, to find herself falling asleep, just as Oz had predicted. He works in silence, insisting she not talk because she'd wiggle around too much anyway, and it's easy for her to just drift off, trying to block out the insistent buzzing of the gun.



“Faith?” Oz's voice is low and insistent and he's gently prodding at her shoulder. “Faith, wake up.”

She raises her head with a start from where she'd rested it on her folded arms, and the sudden movement makes her head swim. “You done?”

“Yeah. I hope you don't mind, I used a little blue around the edges. Gives the letters a little more dimension. You can get up now, by the way.”

“I'm sure it looks great, Oz. Thanks,” she says, struggling to her feet. The letters feel burned into her skin. She tries to remember if it hurts as bad as the lashes on her ass had, but finds she can't really remember all that clearly anymore – the bigger pain of Wes' absence is where all her hurt lives now.

“Check it out.” Oz says, offering a hand to steady her on her feet and nodding towards the giant mirrors that line the walls of the room.

He's done stunning work – it kind of looks like she's been rolled through the old Selectric, and the keys struck the words on her like she was the finest silk-laid bond paper in the universe.

“...I love you because I know no other way...” she whispers, fingers aching to touch each letter in turn, even though the skin is still tender and red.

“Don't touch it yet. When you apply the vitamin E cream, wash your hands first, of course. Keep it moist, but don't go crazy and slap the lotion on, or the scabs will scar."

Her head's swimming as he hands her a little photocopied sheet with all the information she needs, and he makes her sit down while she waits for the cab he's called.

“Should have brought someone to drive you...” he chides.

“Had to do this on my own, Oz,” she sighs.

He doesn't say anything and just nods quietly. They don't say much else while she waits. Another customer – a generic looking soccer mom -- comes in to discuss some design elements of her giant back piece that's nearly complete, a tiger prowling from her shoulders to her ass.

Oz shakes her hand before she exits the shop. “Thanks, Faith.”

“No! Oz – thank you.”

He smiles modestly, and in the driest voice says, “I hope he likes it as much as you do...”

She turns back with a start, confused. “How did you ...?”

“When you've been in this business as long as I have, you start to read people pretty well...” He pauses, gives her a deliberately appraising look. “Hope you guys get back together soon.”

“How the hell...?” She'd be offended if he wasn't being so sweet about it.

“Trade secret,” he replies, face completely devoid of any expression – until he breaks out in a huge grin and hustles her out the door. “Give Spike and Dru my regards!” he yells after her.

Trade secret my ass, she thinks, vowing to punch Spike in the arm -- hard -- the next time she sees him.

Chapter Three Hundred and Fifteen

She spends the night at home alone, which is kinda dull and a year ago the idea of Saturday night in would've been, like, impossible, but she's still tired and her back is throbbing insistently. She curls up on the couch watching whatever channel 32 has to offer because she's too lazy to get up and change channels, and the remote's, well, remote. Darla tidying has its disadvantages; Faith's used to the remote being left on the chair, or the couch, not on top of the TV, which sort of defeats the purpose...

She drifts off in the middle of some horror film so dire she's rooting for the murderer all the way and staggers to bed when Darla breezes in at midnight, all pink cheeks and sparkling eyes.

The next night she's mentally composing her Monday email to Wes as she irons some work clothes and wishing she could decide whether or not to tell him what the tattoo says, or not. 'Cause he's going to totally freak, but will it be in a good way?

She lets the iron rest a fraction of a second too long on the sleeve of her polka-dot blouse as she thinks about that and rescues it from scorching just in time when the impatient hiss of the steam alerts her.

In the end – and it's one of those realizations that smack you in the face, the ones you're absolutely sure about – she decides she doesn't care. She'd cut her hair to spite him – yeah, she had – but she's got the tattoo, not because Wes didn't want it, but because she did.

"Well, look at you being all mature, Faithy," she murmurs to herself, hanging the blouse up on the door handle and unplugging the iron. "Next thing you know, I'll be quitting smoking." She considers that and grins. Maybe next year...

For the twentieth time that day, she twists around, tugging her clothes out of the way to study the tattoo in the mirror. It's still red, still sore, but she can see how good it's going to look and Oz is a fucking genius. She purses up her lips. Picture's worth a thousand words, right? Maybe she'll get Xander to take one when it's all healed-up and send it to Wes. Be good payback for all those fucking birthday spanking jokes he'd made and Wes can add it to the other photographs he took of her.

With an evil smile at the thought of Xander's reaction, she flops forward onto her bed and cracks open her book. It's a paperback she'd found in the dollar bin of the used bookstore on Fergus and she'd bought it because she remembered seeing the author's name on Wesley's non-porn bookshelves. It's funny, though she gets the feeling she's missing a lot of the jokes. Needs Wes to tell her why it's such a hoot that Flora Poste's cousins are called Seth and Reuben – and do English cows really go around with missing hooves? Crazy!

She's just read the part where Aunt Ada – who totally needs smacking down – is shrieking about seeing something nasty in the woodshed when her phone rings. She grabs it, still reading, and she's chucking over Urk's attempts to pick up Meriam so he can make a dramatic exit as she says, "Hi."

"Good evening, Faith. You sound in remarkably good spirits tonight."

Cold Comfort Farm gets abandoned abruptly as her eyes go to the clock by her bed. Nine exactly. Well of course it is...

"Wes! Thought you weren't back 'til Tuesday!"

She can hear him smile. "I'm not. I'm still here."

She does a rapid calculation. "It's, like, two in the morning, isn't it?"

"It is, indeed. Would you like me to yawn for you to prove I'm here?"

And this is some sort of hallucination from too much chocolate because is this Wes actually fucking talking to her, and being sweet while he does it?

"Nah; you always did like staying up late; I believe you."

"I still do, but I rather think I'll be going to bed as soon as this call ends. I've spent the afternoon playing soccer on the lawn with two dogs, seven children and a headache and I'm feeling a little sleepy."

"Wes, you're so gonna pay for that tomorrow," she giggles, because she can just see him amongst that crowd, with his mom looking on and the kids laughing and screaming as he does one of those tackle moves and swipes the ball. It's playing out in her head like a home movie and making her feel sentimental.

"I think I already am," he says dryly. "There's a spectacular bruise on my shin courtesy of Molly and I think it'll take another bath to get rid of all the mud in my hair."

"I'm feeling kinda stiff and sore myself," she says, plunging right in.

There's a small silence. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say to that," he says finally. "Should I offer commiserations or congratulations? Or neither?"

It's her turn to feel puzzled, until she realizes he thinks – "Oh, fuck, no, Wes!" she blurts out. "Not because I've – but –" She flounders to a dead stop and makes up her mind. "Wes, I've done some stuff and I want to tell you about it –"

"Faith –" And there's a weight of disapproval in the word just waiting to crash down on her head.

"Wes, please," she says desperately, cringing as she waits for the click as he hangs up because, shit, it didn't take her long to ruin the mood, now did it? "I'm not telling you to hurt you, or because I think I, like, need your approval or something. I'm telling you because whatever's happened, you're still the only one who knows me and sometimes I think I'll go fucking mad with no one to talk to who gets me."

"You want to tell me something as a friend?" he asks quietly, and she can't work out how he feels. He's too far away.

"Yeah. I guess."

"I'd like us to be friends, Faith," he says and the heaviness is back in his voice but she's not sure why. "Although I can't help feeling I don't deserve even that."

"Not always about deserving, Wes," she says. "I just – I don't want there to be stuff I can't tell you. Might be stuff I don't, 'cause I'm guessing you're not interested in a 24/7 rundown of my life –"

"You'd be wrong," he says and there's a trace of his drawl back and she's biting back a moan, because what she wouldn't give to have Wesley that involved in her life again. "Let's just say I'm well aware of the fact that I no longer have any say in your actions and that's... just as it should be."

It really fucking isn't. She might have been forced to the point where she can make decisions for herself and she might even like doing it sometimes, but if she can still get wet and aching at a written order from him, she's thinking some things haven't changed.

And she never wants them to.

"Right. Whatever. OK, I got that tattoo, just like I said I would and I slept with those friends of mine, Spike and Dru, at the party because I was so fucking angry with you."

She can practically hear him sorting out the blurted words and she starts to panic because, fuck, couldn't she have been a bit less in-your-face about it?

"He's not the one who wanted you to call him, 'master' is he?" Wesley asks eventually. "Because – as a friend- I have to say that if he is, I'll be reluctantly compelled to tell you – again as a friend – that I can't feel it was the most sensible action you've ever taken."

"No! Not him! Christ, Wes, I wouldn't wipe my feet on him. No."

"I'm relieved to hear it," he says solemnly.

"You're not freaking," she says and it's amazing how accusing she sounds, because that's good, right?

"Faith, what do you want me to say?" he asks and there's a weariness to his voice that's not down to anything physical. "That I'm pleased my stupidity and your impulsive nature combined to make you do something you seem to be regretting? Well, I'm not. And – did you say you slept with both of them?"

"And that's mostly what it was," she tells him.

"Oh."

There's a spark of curiosity in his voice, but she can't decide if he's even the smallest bit jealous.

"And I don't regret it, not really, because they were totally sweet about it, I'm just – I hate that I did it to get back at you when you hadn't done anything wrong."

"Do I – if it's still the case that I have any influence over your actions, then –" He's stammering, composure lost.

"Well, you do," she says fiercely. "You do because I still love you, Wes. Haven't stopped, and I won't, not ever." She can hear him take a sharp breath as if she's hit him but she doesn't stop talking, even though something's telling her this conversation won't end abruptly, won't end until they're both done making up for months of silence. "But I've accepted that you're not there to tell me what to do and I'm deciding stuff for myself, like the tattoo." She resolves then and there not to tell him what it says. He's so fond of puzzles; let him work it out. "It's gonna look so good, Wes. Kind of sore now – that's what I meant – but I love it."

"And do I get more detail about it than that?" he asks and his voice is controlled again, even vaguely amused. "Or, like your... encounter, is that to have a discreet veil drawn over it?"

She snuggles back against the pillows, wincing slightly. "Not gonna tell you, Wes, but you're welcome to think about it and guess. I'll give you a clue; it's not a picture."

"And am I permitted to know the location?" he asks mildly.

She takes a sledgehammer to that door she's working on – although tonight it feels as if it's wide-open anyway. "Imagine your hand's on my ass, Wes."

"You're in a very capricious mood tonight, aren't you?" he says softly.

"Totally fucking mercurial," she assures him. "You got that picture fixed in your head?"

"Oh, yes. Your arse, my hand. Well?"

"If you spread your fingers as wide as they go, your thumb would be just about where part of it is."

"That's imprecise to say the least," he complains. "Which part?"

She has to think about that one. "Probably an 'I'," she says.

"I thought you said it wasn't a picture?"

She snickers. "Work it out, Wes; that's all you're getting."

He sounds a little disappointed. "Very well. Should I have any flashes of inspiration, I'll be sure to share them with you."

"You do that." She hesitates. "I want to tell you about the party too, but I don't – will it bother you?"

"Yes." There's no hesitation there. "I can't contemplate you giving yourself away to someone with the same lack of thought that you used to show without being concerned, any more than you could, were the situations to be reversed. But I'm well aware of the fact that it's your decision to make and if you stop using me as a reason or an excuse for your follies then I'm sure you'll be fine in the future."

Too much there to think about but she fastens on to one part of it. "Are they?"

"Are they what?"

"Reversed."

And the tension's crackling between them the way her hair used to do when he brushed it, wrapping around his fingers and sending up sparks.

"I don't think I wish to –"

"No, don't, you don't have to." She's babbling now, words pouring out in a frantic flood. "Shit, Wes, that was way out of line. I'm sorry. You – oh, fuck I hate this."

"I'm so sorry," he says and in those three words she gets what maybe he'll never tell her, sees him as desperate and lonely as her, going back to his old ways, just the way she'd done, because neither of them had had time to really get used to the new. There's lots of clubs in New York, filled with lots of girls whose names begin with 'C'...

"They weren't like that," she says, groping for the words, but determined to tell him. "Spike and Dru. They helped me. I needed – I needed to be touched and they held me and I couldn't – they're such a fucking couple, you know? – and they were even – and he's English and if I closed my eyes I could almost think – and he didn't fuck me because I was crying and –"

"Why were you crying?"

The words are said sharply and she's jolted out of her incoherent recitation. "He thought – he saw the marks on my ass. Little bit of a failure to communicate and he spanked me. Just once and it – God, Wes, it felt good, just for a split-second. Missed that pain so fucking much. Missed you. But it wasn't you and I didn't need it enough to go through with it. Any of it."

"God, Faith," he says quietly. "You have no idea what this is doing to me, do you?"

"No! I don't know!" she wails. "Tell me? Please? Tell me when you came with whoever it was you've fucked that it was different, that it wasn't as good. Tell me you thought of me when you were in them - no, don't, swear to me you didn't, not for a second, please! I don't fucking know, Wes. I came, yes, Dru saw to that and it was good, yes it was, but that was a one-time only and what do I do next, Wes? Really not cut out to go without for ever, but Spike's a fucking walking wet-dream, Wes, and he's into it enough that he'd have spanked me red if I'd wanted it, but not even him - It wasn't you and that means it wasn't enough and it never will be."

She's losing it totally now and this is so wrong; he's never gonna call her again if he thinks this is going to happen but she can't calm down, not when she's got relief at confessing clashing against a sick despair that he's moved on enough to replace her. However fleetingly.

And she's only assuming that they were transient encounters. Fuck, maybe he's seeing someone, trying to be that fucked-up normal version of himself he seems to love so much, some rich bitch like Lilah, all power suits and smarm, because he's a man and they don't change, not really.

"It has to be enough," he grits out. "It's all we have. And, no, Faith, there's been no one since you –" and God, she wishes he could stop there, but he can't, she knows he won't – "who compares, and that's why, that's why I haven't – " He gives this goaded little sound and practically snarls at her. "You're unforgettable, Faith and I'm not sure I want to, I'm not sure I can. But I'm trying to, you have to believe me."

"Stop trying," she says and fuck, if she starts crying he'll go, she knows he will. "Wes – it doesn't have to be this way. This is just so fucking pointless, being apart..."

"Perhaps it is," he admits, and there's nothing of the hope she's feeling in his voice, just an aching desolation. "But I won't risk hurting you again, Faith."

"You only hurt me by leaving, Wes," she says, and she's not feeling like crying any more because she's right and he's fucking wrong. "That's the worst you could ever do, and you did it. And you were right, yeah, you were. I didn't know what I was doing and you were way out of line with some of the stuff you did when we hadn't sorted out all those boundaries and stuff. But, hey, I'm not just reading the classics, y'know. Spike gave me all these how to books; bet you know them, and fuck, Wes, you were right; we barely scratched the fucking surface."

"You're... reading about it -? What we did?"

He sounds stunned, fuck knows why. "Yes," she says impatiently. "Wes, this is what I am, and I'm not gonna be all brood and gloom about it the way you are. And I want to do, like, research. There's all these sites on the net, but I'm freaked in case Monty comes up behind me –"

"As well you should be," he says sternly. "This is exactly why I refused to have computers in my office; far too distracting. I'm surprised you get any work done." And he hasn't used that prissy voice on her for so long...

"Yeah, well trust me, Wes, I spend less time surfing in office hours than I did bent over your desk getting my ass spanked," she says dryly. "And I don't recall you complaining about me not getting through what needed doing."

"You were an exemplary secretary once I'd trained you," he says gravely and without a hint of sarcasm or humor. He sighs. "I knew this would happen if we spoke at length," he says, and she gets the feeling he's talking to himself. "You're so very-"

"I'm right, Wes," she snaps. "Look, we fucked up, yes, but has it changed the way you feel about me?"

"Don’t...”

"Don't make you admit you love me? I did it once, Wes, and I can do it again."

"You don't need to," he says and he's whispering now. "I never said I'd stopped, did I? But I'm not ready to risk – I'm not like you, Faith."

"No," she says simply. "You're a top, I'm a bottom. 'Night, Wes. Have a safe trip back and I'll speak to you – well, I'll write to you tomorrow and I'll call you Sunday, as normal, but y'know, now we're past the bullshit, you can always hit reply."

And she waits politely for him to stammer a disconcerted good bye before disconnecting.

Chapter Three Hundred and Sixteen

She's not sure what she's expecting after what feels like the most monumental phone call since records began.

It's certainly not opening up her gmail on Monday morning to find a message from Wes nestling in her inbox since 10.03 pm the night before. She can already see the words rushing past: wordy crap like "last night was a temporary aberration", "we should desist from this painful attempt to conciliate", "never darken my phone line/in box with your pathetic ramblings." Door's slammed shut.

But then she stops being a drama queen and clicks on the message and she's already smiling and "aw"ing because only Wes would write an email as precise as the letters he used to dictate to her. Punctuation perfect, capital letters all lined up. Bet he even spell checked it before he sent it. Still, at least he managed not to date it and put his address at the top.

And she knows it's going to be OK, because he starts it with:

Dear Faith

I'm still up. I can't seem to sleep and will definitely suffer for it tomorrow as I believe a farewell hike to the pub in the next village has been planned.

I just wanted to say that despite my reticence when our conversation dangerously veered off course so soon, I'm very glad that we're back in contact. I'm also glad at our decision to be friends.

Would you think it potentially incendiary if I confess that I missed our friendship?

Anyway, I really must drag myself off to bed. And I'm sure you must have lots of work to do when you're not surfing dubious websites.

Goodnight or rather good morning,

Wes

Grinning, she takes a big gulp of her double caramel latte and clicks on 'reply.'

Hey Wes

Guess you haven't turned into a big, old nerd if you're still using the long words and the commas.

I'm glad that you're glad that we're back in contact. Even gladder that we're friends. I missed that too. 'Cause we like, liked each other just as much as all the other stuff, didn't we?

It's way too early in the morning (and Monty's due in court this afternoon and if he spills coffee on another deposition, I'm gonna bop him over the head with his Harvard mug) to get too heavy about stuff.

Just got a favor to ask you – could you send me some more Orange Kit-Kats? I managed to get through them wicked fast and I'm having serious withdrawal.

Have a good hike and don't drink too much beer or lager or whatever you call it over there.

Faith x

And if he thinks that innocent little x is anything but then he can just freaking well bite her.


The tattoo's still throbbing away under her clothes, which she absolutely refuses to let Darla or Xander or anyone else see because it belongs to her and Wes. But it doesn't feel like the bad kind of secret, any more than the phone calls or the email or the contents of the boxes that Darla brings up in a querulous voice every now and again.

There's no point in confessing about stuff that's only going to get her a metric assload of grief followed by an intervention with pizza and ice cream if she's lucky. So she hugs all of it close to her soul and knows that she's wearing this serene little smile on her face practically all the time, which felt strange at first but suits her. Like her swingy new hair.

She even gets to Tuesday afternoon without angsting about the lack of anything from wwpryce in her inbox. She can fill in the blanks herself. A long walk in the rain ('cause it rains all the time in England, she's pretty sure about that) to the pub with his cousins and then they sat by a roaring log fire and drank beer and maybe they roasted chestnuts 'cause she also has a vague feeling that they do that all the time in the mother country too. Then he'd have had to go back, pack, have an early night, go to the airport, stopping off to buy her a box of Orange Kit Kats on the way…

And there's a ping because she's got mail.

Faith

Would you believe that I'm writing this while 40,000 feet up in the air? I find it almost impossible to comprehend that one can send emails while flying. Did you know about this? It was most unfair of you not to tell me. According to my skymap, I'm currently somewhere above Iceland.
I'm also deathly bored and stuck on 14 across:
Pop opera starring Nicole Kidman.
Any ideas?

Wes

Monty's in court and she's got nothing better to do. Really. Well, except filing and she gives the pile of papers on her desk a dismissive look.

Hey Wes

Can't believe you sent me an email from the plane! What can you see out of the window? And you'd better have bought me some Orange Kit Kats or no way in hell am I helping you with the crossword.

Faith x

She's barely got up from her desk to start on the A's when he replies:

My dearest, demanding, devious Faith

Lurking in my hand luggage are 10 hand-picked Orange Kit Kats which I'm now planning to give to the snotty-nosed child behind me in a desperate attempt to get him to stop kicking the back of my seat. Unless you know someone else who might like them.
I can't see anything out of the window except sky. Did I mention how mind-numbingly bored I am?

Wes

She hasn't even got time to dwell on the 'dearest'; time enough for that later.

Wes, Wes, Wes

The answer to 14 across is Moulin Rouge and if you give that brat my Kit Kats then I'm gonna phone air traffic control and get your plane divertted via the North Pole.




Thank you, Faith. Though I'm assuming your threat was an idle one and you haven't joined any nascent terrorist organizations lately. One never knows with you. I have to go now, we're having a spot of turbulence.

Wes

PS: There's only one 't' in diverted.


Tuesday he's nowhere to be found but she puts that down to jet lag and on Wednesday it must be his first day back in the office so he'll be all busy dusting down his law books and making sure that no one over-watered his plants, or, like looked at them funny while he was away.

And on Wednesday in her lunch-hour she's too busy having a lightbulb moment with her copy of SM 101 to even glance up when she hears her computer ping. She doesn't even check her in box until she's scribbled in her notebook:

Me: aggressive bottom

Wes: straight top

•Some tops get off on bottoms who are defiant or subtly disobedient.

•Quite often a top will enjoy topping you because of your reactions--the way you wriggle, and squirm, and cry out.

•Just because you're on the bottom doesn't mean you're a puppet. But there is a big difference between being open and communicative, and trying to force things in your preferred direction. A good bottom is one who is enthusiastic, devoted to their top's pleasure, willing to surrender to their top's will, open about their own desires (in a respectful manner, of course), and happy to be bottoming.



"I'm so an aggressive bottom," she mutters to herself as she shoves her notebook back in her bag and opens up her inbox. There's an email from Spike asking her if she wants to go to some performance art show on Saturday night, one from Darla asking her to pick up some Hamburger Helper on the way home and one from Wes which makes her spit diet Coke over her desk.

Faith

Back in the office now and an Orange Kit Kat is on its way to you. In the singular. Though it may be some comfort for you to know that the other nine were exceedingly tasty. Or maybe you'll get another one in the post when you least expect it.
I just popped out to get a paper and saw a small dog with its fur dyed bright pink. It looked most disgruntled.

Wes

She's already composing her reply which mostly consists of telling him what she thinks of his chocolate bogarting in like, no uncertain terms when Monty comes in, practically vibrating with post-court stress and she has to spend the rest of the afternoon on her knees (and not in a good way) in his office helping him sort through papers and getting him ready for tomorrow.

There's five minutes before she needs to go and meet Xander to help him pick out his sixth date outfit when she gets a chance to email Wes.


Wes

You think you're so cute with your evil chocolate withholding routine, yeah? Well, not so much.
I'm sending you an invite code to gmail 'cause I want to send you some stuff that isn't work-safe. You know I told you I've been doing some research, well I think you'll find it kinda interesting. Or maybe you won't. Your call. Won't get mad if you don't want to. Really, really won't but please…

And then before she can chicken out, she reminds herself that she's the pushiest bottom in all of Push Town and she clicks send.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventeen

When she switches on her computer in the morning, she’s almost a little shocked to find an acceptance e-mail from one Wesley Wyndam-Pryce waiting for her. Stranger things have happened, sure, but for a second there she thinks the earth might stop spinning on its axis.

Gmail Team     
<gmail-noreply@google.com> to me
     More options     Nov 10 (1 day ago)

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce has accepted your invitation to Gmail and has chosen the brand new address wesley.wyndam-pryce@gmail.com. Wesley's new address has been automatically added to your contact list so you can stay in touch with Gmail.

Thanks,

The Gmail Team

Okay, so now what? She’s the one who opened the whole “not work safe” ball of wax, now she’s got to deliver. Luckily Monty’s out of the office —some client luncheon that’ll undoubtedly end in hours of chummy martini-imbibing and cigar smoking— which means she’s pretty much got the office to herself all afternoon. So she takes a deep breath and dives right in. Too late to backpedal now.

Hey Wes—

So glad you took me up on the invite. Gmail is pretty cool —it keeps everything organized into conversations and thanks to all that storage space I can even hook you up with some mp3s now. I’m sure you’re dying to know what Interpol sound like…  Man cannot live on classical music alone. C’mon, Wes, expand your horizons, you know you wanna.

Anyway, I’ve been dying to share some of this stuff I’ve been reading about with you —it’s really fascinating. Complicated, but fascinating. I mean, it’s still pretty new and I’m still sorting everything out, you know? But you’d be proud of me —I spend every night before I go to bed reading and writing stuff down in my journal.

There’s a lot to think about, but one thing I totally get now is that, it’s all about exchange, give-and-take. I didn’t know enough to share responsibility with you, and you didn’t want to, like, burden me with it or something. But it wouldn’t have been a burden for me —I just, well, I didn’t know any better. When I read this I had to underline it: “The submissive is proud to submit, and the dominant is proud to receive the gift of their submission.”

That’s how it could have been, Wes. And you know what? When we were together, I was proud. No, fuck that. I am proud. Of everything we did together, everything we meant to one another. And still mean, I hope.

Are you?

…

Well, I’m going to stop there —that’s probably enough shop talk for one e-mail. Truth is, I’m kinda bored today. It’s really quiet here. I might even get some more reading done. Oh, don’t worry —I’m not dragging out Screw the Roses when Monty’s got his back turned. No, I’m in the middle of Kavalier and Clay and I have to tell you, I’m not feelin’ it. Maybe I’ll go back and finish Cold Comfort Farm, which I liked even though I felt like I was missing pretty much all the jokes.

How’s your day going? Are you still jet-lagged? Do you miss home already? Even the shin-kicking cousins?

Okay, enough with the twenty questions.

Signing off,

Faith x

She hits send with less trepidation this time. She’s never quite sure how he’ll react to anything these days, but for the most part he seems intent on pleasantly surprising her so she isn’t going to stress about it too much. In fact, she practically forgets altogether about having sent the e-mail—she’s busy writing back to Spike about the show on Saturday when she hears the tell-tale ping of a new message in her in-box.

Faith-

I take it by Interpol you’re referring to some sort of musical group and not the global organization? Despite the fact that I seem to be moving gradually in the direction of the 20th century by embracing e-mail, I have not yet unlocked the eternal mysteries of the mp3. I’m willing to try some of your music if you’re willing to explain how I can play them. Deal? I presume you wouldn’t like some Górecki in return…?

And I don’t mind the twenty questions. In fact they’re sparing me momentarily from this deposition from hell, which I cannot bring myself to tackle.

I do miss home, rather. Feels odd to say that after all this time and finally mean it, but I do. My family is obviously more forgiving of my youthful folly than I ever was. In point of fact, no-one really cared about it as much as my father did - my mother certainly didn’t. But she kept quiet all this time because she respected my decision to separate myself irrevocably from them.

I don’t deserve her forgiveness, really, but I’m grateful for it. I had an unexpectedly lovely visit. Perhaps I’ll tell you more about it when next we speak on the phone.

As for your other query —well. Two deceptively simple little words, and you have me at a loss as to how to answer you properly.

You asked me if I was proud of what we did.

No. How could I be? I hurt you, Faith, and to take pleasure in that goes against everything—

I was raised by a man who believed with utter sincerity that women were the weaker sex in every way – and yet still saw nothing wrong with disciplining his wife when he thought it necessary. I don't mean in the same way that I corrected you. No. He never, to my knowledge, struck her in anger, or passion, but I saw him take her to task once, and finish his lecture with a single, deliberate slap that left her face reddened, bruised. He would have told me, had I dared take him to task for it, that it was his duty, as it was his duty to chastise me.

I hit you once in anger, Faith. Just once. Oddly, that blow, of all the
ones I gave you, is the one of which I'm least ashamed because there was no thought behind it. The ones I planned hours before, the ones I'd spend my day anticipating... they were different.

No duty involved there; just pleasure. My pleasure.

I sometimes wonder how the child who spent hours reading about heroes, champions of right, imagining himself as one of Arthur's knights, fighting with Robin, Ivanhoe.... and yes, even Biggles —I wonder how I went from idolizing those men to what I became.

They would never have hurt you. Would Lancelot have ever raised his hand to Guinevere? I don't think so. Lancelot.... I always did identify with him more, and that's fitting. Galahad whose, 'strength was as the strength of ten because my heart is pure', well, he's not really a good match for me, is he? Lancelot, whose unbridled lust – and stripped of the poetry, that's what it was – brought down all that was good, spoiled everything – far more fitting.

So, no, Faith I'm not proud.

But when I remember you –and there's no single moment of our time together that I've forgotten– you were always so... accepting of
everything I made you endure without ever being – I'm finding this hard to talk about, Faith so forgive me my ramblings. You say you were proud of it, that you took pride in what you were to me, in fulfilling your side of the, well, contract, I suppose? Yes. I think I can see that, looking back and it explains a lot. I don't think I fully appreciated it at the time. Too difficult to believe that you could, that anyone could.

I've read some of the books you must be trying now– not as many
perhaps, as I gave up many years ago trying to perform the tricky task of self-analysis. I read what there was –less of it, and far less
readily available than now– gritted my teeth for long enough to brand myself a sadist and plunged into an exploration, not of the whys and wherefores, as you're doing, but into indulging my desires as much as I was able.

Which wasn't much.

You're of a different order to me, Faith. So brave, always. So open.

It's impossible to doubt you, even when I can't look into your face,
because you're so very bad at lying. I knew, all those weeks, I knew
something was wrong...

So if you tell me that our relationship was a source of pride to you,
not shame, I can only say that I'm happy to hear it but I'm not sure –
Faith, I want to share that feeling but I don't know if I can.
You're so very persuasive but you're going up against decades of
believing that what I wanted was something to be ashamed of, that what I did was something to be hidden.

I'm not sure even you can change that, Faith.

But, if it helps, for the first time I wish you could.

Wesley

She imagines it took him hours to compose that answer. And yeah, he’s pretty goddamn persuasive too, but she’s not going to let him get away with being such a fucking martyr. Not any more. She writes the reply in a rush, pouring all her indignation and frustration and regret into words that she can only hope carry some shred of how important this is to her. She wants to make him understand, somehow—

Jesus, Wes. You really are made of some incredibly dense material. You didn’t make me “endure” anything —can’t you see that? You’re acting like I did everything for you out of some kind of —obligation, is that it?

Well, that’s not it. And you’re so far off base I don’t even know where to start.

My life hasn’t been all that easy, either. You may have noticed that my family is pretty screwed up. Yeah, that’s a fucking newsflash. But that day that you spanked me —it was like, everything else kind of fell away. I’d been looking for so long for something that helped. And everything I’d tried —the stealing, the burning stuff, the getting down on my knees more times than I can count— just left me feeling emptier than before.

But not that. Never that.

Don’t you see? You didn’t debase me, you lifted me up.

I just wish it had gone both ways.

She’s practically shaking when she hits send.


Chapter Three Hundred and Eighteen

The single chocolate bar is waiting for her when she gets home; and there's an empty wrapper in there too, with a Post-it attached. He's scrawled, 'You're quite right; they're addictive' on it and signed it with a W and a squiggle that just has to be a kiss.

Doesn't make her feel any better when he's silent the next day though and, because Monty's so not the sort to work weekends, with the following day being Saturday she's got no way of checking for a reply. She can phone though, and she does, really late on Saturday night, when Spike and Dru have dropped her off after a night that was, well, interesting, even if the frozen paint she'd been handed and told to warm with her body before using it to paint on a twenty foot long white wall had been more participation than she'd been planning on. Dru's walk through the crowd with a doll, lights turned down, spotlight on the doll's china face and blue, staring eyes had been creepy as fuck though...

But Wesley's phone had rung and rung and he was either fast asleep in bed, or out.

And she's so not contemplating what Wesley's idea of a Saturday night out might be but she hopes it was the kind he can send her a ticket stub for.

She waits until 9.03 on Sunday night to ring him, not to get him freaking, but because she's not sure if he wants to call her, take that small amount of control back. But he doesn't, so she settles back and presses the buttons. No speed dial; she likes to use the slow, deliberate press of her finger against the buttons to focus herself. Especially tonight because she's got plans. Plans that have taken her all day to work out, all evening to rehearse, until the small trash can in the corner is filled with crumpled paper and her head's full of dreams.

"Hello, Faith," he says before she's had chance to even draw breath.

"One day, it'll be, like a telemarketer, not me," she tells him. "Then what will you say?"

"Something very rude," he says. "How are you?"

"Fine... but I want the rest of my chocolate, Wes."

"Always so demanding... All in good time. And stop pouting. It doesn't work long-distance."

"Did it ever?" she asks curiously, trying to remember any time when he'd relented or done something faster just because she'd begged, pled, or pouted. And she's noticing that they're sticking to the light-hearted, which is fine for now, but they're gonna get to those last two emails, she's set on that. No fucking way is she going along with the idea that he's too old to change.

"I think I'll refuse to answer that," he says. "If you knew which ploys were effective that would never do, now would it? I'd lose all my advantages."

And they're hovering on the edge of something there, some admission that there'll be a time when they're face-to-face again, but he steps back. "Did you call me last night?"

"Yeah, I did," she admits. "Went to this performance art show with Spike and Dru and wanted to share. I'll email you a link to the site they've got set up."

"If you like," he says agreeably, although she'll bet money on him never doing more than give it a cursory look. "I was in company too but the entertainment was less, ah, experimental."

And he wouldn't have said that much if it was something he didn't want her to ask about, so she plunges in. "Yeah? What was it then?"

"One of the senior partners, Rupert Giles, seems to have taken me under his wing as we share a nationality, a university and a love of single malts; he asked me over to his house for dinner and we ended up playing chess until very late."

"Sounds like your sort of an evening," she says cautiously. "Is he married?'

"Widowed," Wesley says. "Some years ago now, I believe." He hesitates. "He – it's the oddest coincidence, but he knew my mother. Not well, but enough that he was interested in hearing about my trip..."

"I am too," she says.

"Really?" He sounds doubtful and she's all geared up to get prodding him when he takes this deep breath and starts talking.

It's a world she doesn't know, green, green, green, with tiny country lanes and cows in fields and woods and pubs and shops with names she doesn't know, crammed full of candy she wants to eat. It's where Wesley came from and it hits her how far away from it he is.

"Your mom," she says when he pauses in the middle of explaining exactly what a ploughman's is. "She had to have been so glad to see you, Wes. Had to have missed you so much."

Years without him. Years of returned or ignored letters... God, that had to have hurt...

"She did," he admits. "If I'd known how much – but she wouldn't allow me to dwell on the past – " Good for Mrs. W-P, Faith thinks. "And she's changed so much since my father died. She'd never been out of the country before, but she went on a trip to Egypt last winter. And she's taken up painting. I brought back one she'd done from a photograph of me as a child. She'd done that when as far as she knew she was never going to hear from me again – "

"She's your mom, Wes," she tells him as his recital falters. "Can't imagine how she could ever stop loving you."

"Can't you?" He sounds wistful and she's not going to let him get all mopey on her.

"No." Then, before he's got chance to reply, she says, "Guess you don't want me reading to you any more then, now we're, you know, actually talking?"

"On the contrary," he says promptly, just jumping at the chance to change the subject as she knew he would. "I'm looking forward to it. What did you have planned?"

"Tell me where you are," she says. "What you're wearing. I want to picture it."

There's a moment of startled silence and then he chuckles. "As I'm alone and not expecting that to change, I'm wearing a robe. I've just finished bathing and I'm, well, I'm in my bedroom."

"You're lying on your bed?" she asks. "The same –"

"No." His voice wavers and then steadies. "Not – not our bed. Most of my furniture is still in storage. This apartment belongs to a lawyer who's been sent to Europe for a year. I'm sub-letting it, furnished, while I look around."

She absorbs that and nods, though he can't see her. "Think I get the picture, Wes." God, does she ever. His hair, sleeked back and two shades darker, skin still redolent of his special soap, damp so that when she strokes her hand against it, it stutters and she has to move so very slowly...

"I'm going to start now," she tells him. "And you're not to interrupt, or I'll stop."

"I – very well."

He sounds intrigued, a little bit wary even. She wants him like that. Well, no, she wants him hard, wants him aching, but that can come later. She lets her voice take on the cadence of someone reading, although the only script's in her head. This is performance art, too, she thinks, with an audience of one.

"She gets into bed and she's wearing the slip he told her he liked, the one she knows he'll never tear because he wouldn't do that to something she loved. It felt cold when she put it on, and she shivered, got all these goose bumps over her arms, but it's warm against her skin now. The room's dark and the breeze from the open window, well it's making her nipples tighten until they start to hurt, just a little, just a bit. Or maybe that's because she knows the rest of the house is dark too, and he'll be here soon. Yeah, think it must be, don't you?

"So she lifts her hand, not hurrying, because he's taught her not to ever rush, and rubs them through the silk, closing her eyes and pretending it's him pinching them or biting down. And sometimes she wishes he'd do it harder, or ease off, but, you know, it's up to him and she likes that. She likes not having a choice. Makes it all so very fucking simple for her."

"Faith?" He sounds so uncertain but then he gathers himself and he's verging on stern. "What are you doing?"

"I'm stopping, Wes," she says, keeping her voice level and controlled. "Because you interrupted me. Guess that means you don't want to hear what happens next." She allows his silence to answer her. He doesn't want her to stop. And if he's not hard she'll give the next orange Kit Kat to Xander. "Maybe I'm wrong though. Should I carry on reading? Your call, Wes."

There's just long enough for her to take two deep, slow breaths and then he says, "Carry on."

"Yes, Wesley." She pauses, gathers the threads of the story and starts to weave her net."She's so wet already. Been like that since she stepped into the shower and shaved herself bare the way he'd told her to. She's not sure what turns her on more; when he gives her an order, or when she obeys it. Both, maybe. And if he's whispered it in her ear or written it down for her to find, it's all the same. She shivers and she gets wet and she obeys him."

There's the smallest sound and it might be her name, bitten-off sharply. She smiles and lets her hand drift down from her nipple...

"She's wet but he's always really clear on where she's allowed to touch and her cunt's for him, no one else. Totally off-limits to get herself off and she can't remember the last time she did when he wasn't watching her, telling her what to do, so his voice and what her fingers are doing get all mixed-up in her head. It got so he could lean in and whisper, 'Come, Faith' and she would, just from that. Did I mention her name was Faith, Wes? This girl in this story? Well it is. And she's so fucking wet, so fucking open, he's gonna be able to slide inside her without touching her if he wants. Just sit beside her on her bed, the same one she's slept on every night since she was nine, and now she's nineteen - yeah, same age as me, what're the odds? - it's a little too narrow, little too short. So he'll be on the edge and he'll tell her to spread her legs wide, and maybe he'll just look, take his time, lean in close so she can feel his breath cool the heat that's coming off her, never touching, never. And –"

She can hear his breath, husky and fast, and she eases back.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I, Wesley? Because he's not there yet. He still hasn't come. It's just Faith lying on her bed, wet and slippery and waiting. Waiting for him, because he's told her to. Trying to be good and keep her fingers away but not quite managing it and they're so close to her clit, it's almost disobeying.

And she might try harder to please him if she didn't know it's her small rebellions that please him the most. Yeah, she's worked that out.

"Now, you know her name's Faith, but you don't know who this mystery man is, do you, Wes? Bet you're dying to know who it is that's got her like this, so hot she can't think straight, so fucking ready...

"Who is she waiting for, Wes? For a Romeo, all pure and sweet, practically a fucking virgin? Or for someone like her, someone who knows what she wants and doesn't mind how long it takes to give it to her, because when it comes to her he's got all the time in the world? Who am I waiting for, Wesley?"

When he answers he's right there with her, in her room, in her game.

"You're waiting for me, Faith. And you're not waiting very patiently. I think I'd like your hand to be by your side, please."

She spreads her fingers wide against the bed, carefully placed so she's not touching her skin and then brings them together, clutching at the quilt, gripping it hard so she can keep her voice steady.

"Yes, Wesley."

Chapter Three Hundred and Nineteen

There's a hiss in the dead air between them, makes it seem like they've both disappeared into her fantasy, like there's no longer hundreds of miles between them.

She's not sure what to do next though – continue? Or let him take over? And that's when she realizes that she's holding her breath in anticipation and getting lightheaded. The thin comforter is crumpled tight in her hand, and yeah, she's really freakin' wet now, like her fictional self, and when she finally starts breathing again, it cuts through the silence, as ragged and needy as his had been.

“That's good. Now, keep it there and continue reading, Faith,” he drawls, slight emphasis on the word they both know is a fabrication.

Her words come out in a tumble, the pretense of repeating words off a page dissolving rapidly, 'cause just how is she supposed to turn the pages with her hand by her side? “He was working late, without her. They both hated that, but sometimes he needed to be alone to work out his thoughts. But then he'd called and said he was coming over. Didn't give her a chance to argue, or mention that her mother was asleep in the other room. Just said he was coming, and to leave the door unlocked. And on his drive over, he nearly runs two red lights; he's so distracted by the thought of her waiting there in her room, waiting for him. He knows her house, but he's never seen her bedroom, though she's described it to him before. He knows that her room is the first one upstairs, at the top of the landing...

“And when she sees his headlights flash through her window, she slips her hand away from where it's just barely hovering over her clit... Rests her hands flat on the bed, waiting just the way she knows he wants her to be.

“It's hard though, and he can't get there fast enough. Her hands itch to be teasing her clit, and her fingers are twitchy by her sides. If she listens real close, she can hear him shut the door of his car, hear him slowly turn the knob on the front door and slip inside, carefully pushing the door shut behind him. And she knows that look that's on his face. He's so serious, so careful, so deliberate...

“She told him about the stair, the one with the squeak, fourth from the top, and she's counting his footfalls, holding her breath when he reaches that tricky one. But he steps around it, of course, because he's been planning this trip since they met. Waiting for the right night to come over and fuck her in her narrow little bed, pressing her down into it...

“But I'm getting ahead of myself again, aren't I Wesley?” He hasn't been able to get a word in edgewise, but she can hear every little involuntary response – every breath, and she likes the thought of him sprawled on a stranger's bed, surrounded by someone else's furniture and knick-knacks and books. She can tell he wants to interrupt, take over her story, but there's something unspoken between them, and she's not sure when it happened – maybe when he interrupted her the first time, but it was clear to them both, or so it seemed. He would tell her what to do only when it was necessary. Boldly, she forges ahead. “Are you hard, Wesley?” She doesn't pause to let him answer, though. “I know you've been stroking your cock since we got on the phone together, haven't you? Have you done that every time I've called you? Is the sound of my voice enough to make you think of nothing but fucking me?”

“I think you know the answers to all those questions, Faith.”

“I want to hear you say it, Wes. Want to hear you say you still want to fuck me that way. The way it used to be. The way we used to be.”

She can tell he's opened his mouth to say something, but the words are still trapped in his brain, held hostage by his damn insecurities, the one she knows that her last email must have at least begun to chip through. 'Cause otherwise he wouldn't still be on the phone, would have hung up fifteen minutes ago, stammering an excuse and fading back into the night.

“You're a glorious sight, splayed out on your bed, waiting for me,” he finally drawls at her, hiding behind the game. He's changed the tense 'cause he's practically there with her in the room now. With her eyes closed, she can forget that she's clutching the phone to her ear, can forget that his breathing isn't coming from his dark figure in the doorway instead of across a phone line, still tinged with static. “So much of that comes from the sheer fact that you're aware of the effect you have on me. But there's no maliciousness to it. You know your power and you don't use that against me, don't use it to manipulate me. Quite the contrary, you're content, no, that's the wrong word. You're begging me to manipulate you – with my hands, with my mind. Do you have any idea... any at all...” He falters, falling into a stammer.

“Wesley, just answer the questions.”

He's pressed so close to the phone, she can hear him swallow nervously and force the words out. “Of course I am... Of course I do, Faith. How could I not let my hands wander that first night when Nabokov's prose dripped so sweetly from your lips? Or any of the subsequent Sundays? Or now?

“It's a little unfair, don't you think?”

“Not really.” His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Keep your hand at your side.”

She smiles, 'cause she knows that he knows that she wouldn't dream of moving it until he told her to. But frustratingly, he keeps dodging the issue, slipping from her grasp, out-gaming her game. “Then say it,” she bites out instead of the demure acquiescence she's sure he was expecting.

He sighs, frustrated. “Say what, Faith? Really, your lack of focus is...”

“Tell me you're not ashamed anymore. You wouldn't be on the phone with me still if you weren't. Tell me you're not ashamed of yourself, of me, of us. Of what we have. Tell me we're special. Tell me you can't have this with anyone else. Tell me you don't want to be with anyone else.”

There's a long pause before he speaks, and her fingers drum impatiently against the mattress. As frustrating as the conversation has become, she's still pleased that they're butting heads like this, that he's played her game this far.

“Wouldn't you rather hear what I have to say, instead of empty words parroted back at you?” he asks, the words so tart they sting and nearly shatter that confidence.

“Of course, Wes. The last thing I want to do is put words in your mouth...”

“I want you to touch yourself now, Faith. I want you to...”

“Wrong answers again, Wesley.” Her patience is snapping.

“I really wish you wouldn't interrupt like that; I wasn't finished.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, genuinely contrite. “Go on.”

There's a long silence and she can tell he's regrouping his thoughts, and she doesn't push him further. “You don't know what your last email did to me. You couldn't, of course. You shattered my concentration so fully, I couldn't work. I didn't know what to do – I've always been able to shove my ... emotions aside, get things done. And for what was probably the first time in my life, I got up, I walked away. I took the rest of the day off. That's the nice thing about working in a practice; my co-counsel on the case could see I was distressed. He was practically shoving me out the door...”

“He sounds like my kind of guy. I'd like to shake his hand.”

“I have no doubt that you're Lindsay's kind of girl, as well -- and he'd like to do more than shake your hand...”

“Stay on topic, Wes.”

“Right. Of course. I left the office and got into a cab. I didn't know where I was going, I still haven't been able to explore the city as much as I would have liked. Without thinking, I asked him to take me to the Frick.”

“That's where all those John Singer Sargent paintings are...”

“You've been reading up, I'm impressed. There are a good number of them there, yes.”

“Well, I've been trying to get all that modern art, but I really do like his portraits.”

“As do I, and as I wandered the galleries, I realized why I wanted to be there when I turned around a corner, and there she was. One of his subjects resembled you a bit. It's always been one of my favorite paintings, but it had never struck me like this. The girl, the subject, she's staring right out of the canvas, right at you, daring you to challenge her. Daring you to take her on. And she looks so happy. So joyous. She was everything I remembered you looking like, Faith...

“And the words of your last email... When you said I'd lifted you up, I am ashamed to say that I didn't believe you -- that I even believed you were dangerously delusional -- until I saw this radiant, confident young woman challenging me with her gaze across a century.”

“I'd love to see it someday...”

“And so you shall, I'm sure of it...”

Another long minute of silence ticks between them after his voice trails off.

“I'm trying, Faith. It's going to take me some time, but I'm willing to try. Between you and my mother, I'm beginning to see that it's pointless endeavor to continue wallowing in my self pity when such demanding women have an interest in my well-being.”

“That's a step. You weren't even willing to try in your last email, Wes. I'll take my victories where I can.”

“Like dragging me into your little game this evening?”

“Something like that. But hey, I'm not the one lounging around in a bathrobe. Which reminds me... we got a little sidetracked, didn't we?”

He laughs, really laughs for the first time in ages. “I suppose that's one way of putting it...”

Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty

She wishes she could just press a button on her phone and he'd materialize in front of her, still sleek and wet from his bath, wouldn't even pull him down on the bed. Not at first. Just get to her feet and hold him, get used to the feel of him, of his arms around her again.

"God, I wish you were here, Wes," she can't help but sigh and he sighs back, a perfect echo of her frustration.

"It would be so simple, Faith," he says carefully. "I could just jump in a cab and go to the airport or send you a ticket and have you on my doorstep in just a few hours…"

"Then why don't you?" she bites out and then tries to bite it back. "I'm sorry, OK. I'm gonna give you time, I am. But I'm not gonna stop with this, Wes. I'm way more stubborn than you."

And she is and he fucking well knows it, which is why he gives this pained little chuckle. "You're uncontrollable, Faith. I always set such great store by my capacity for control but never with you. I couldn't control my reactions to you, the way I felt about you, the way you made me feel – even now, when my mind was so set. You always find a way to pierce my resolve."

He sounds a bit pissed off about it but she's still wet and wanting on her bed and she'd bet every single one of those orange Kit Kats that she can get him from humble to hard again in ten seconds. "Damn straight I can. About to pierce it all over again, Wes."

Her eyes roll back in her head so hard she thinks she might have dislocated something in her cranium when she hears him sigh yet again. Is he going for the world record?

"I don't want to lead you on, Faith. Or give you false expectations," he murmurs. "Maybe you should just read me something from Kavalier and Klay instead."

"And maybe I really should get on a plane so I can come over there and bitchslap you," she growls and smirks when she hears his little huffy noise of outrage. "I know you've still got, like, stuff to deal with but doesn't mean we can't get each other off in the mean time. Not like you haven't been jerking yourself off every other time I read to you, is it?"

There's a pause so pregnant that she thinks it might just have gone in to labor and then he snaps at her, really fucking snaps at her so she's clutching fistfuls of the sheet again.

"What I really want to do is tip you over my knee, yank up that slip so I can see your pretty arse just begging for the touch of my hand, for the sharp sting of a slap. But your mother's asleep next door, isn't she?"

He's back in the game with a vengeance. "Yeah, she really is," she says, although Darla's having a sleepover with the boyfriend. "Guess we'll need to be totally quiet."

"But you do so love to thrash around," he drawls. "And I imagine your bed creaks. I think I shall have to restrain you just to be on the safe side."

The hand that isn't clutching the phone is creeping towards the hard, aching tip of her breast now. He hasn't said that she could but then again what does he expect?

"I'm touching myself, Wes," she murmurs just to make sure that he's down with that.

"Be more specific, Faith," he barks at her. "Where are you touching yourself?"

"My breasts," she croaks. "Can't help it."

"I want you to suck your fingers into your mouth," he tells her hoarsely and she's rushing to obey, making sure she gives him the soundtrack that she knows he wants. "Now I want you to rub them against your nipples. Are they all pretty and wet now, Faith?"

She lifts her head to see the damp sheen on her breasts. "Yeah."

"I imagine that your cunt's pretty and wet too, isn't it? I can see it glistening as I spread your legs, tie you down, a silk scarf around each ankle. Then your wrists so you're spread out before me like a feast. Breasts heavy and aching and you beg me to touch them, take them into my mouth, use my tongue, use my teeth. But I've already told you that you need to be quiet, Faith, and you're being unforgiveably demanding. Do you want me to gag you?"

"No, Wes," she's whispering frantically and her legs are parted so far that the muscles in her thighs are quivering, one arm stretched out to cling onto her broken headboard because she can almost feel the soft chafing of the scarf holding her open. "Don't want that."

"Well, what you want is rather immaterial," he says silkily. "I wanted to go down on you but it's not possible because you're going to moan and whimper, aren't you, Faith?"

And he can't because he's thousands of miles away but she's still got tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'll be quiet, Wes, promise I will."

"Even when I hold you open, one thumb resting on your clit so I can fuck you with my tongue. Will you be quiet then?"

"I'll try," she hisses. "Please, Wes, please…"

His breath is coming in harsh, ragged intervals and she can see his long, elegant fingers slowly sliding over the warm, wet length of his cock, even as she can also see him looming over her as she's splayed out on the bed.

"I want you to slide your hand down your belly, Faith," he says in a softer voice. "All the way down to your cunt. Are you wet? Tell me how wet you are."

Her fingers are sliding over her skin superfast so she can dip inside her soaking pussy. "Really wet. Feels so good and I just need…"

"I know what you need. I always do." It's true. Times like these all his doubt and ambivalence melts away and he's certain, assured and yeah, kinda dark. "Just slide one finger inside your cunt slowly, Faith. Do you think you might need another one?"

She's already moaning like she's got her whole hand in there and she's not even sure if she's managing to sound out 'yes' but he tells her to add two more fingers so she guesses he understood.

Then he flickers back to the other game they're playing and the shift doesn't feel awkward, just that she has these two versions of him now. The one who's letting her fuck herself with shaking fingers, thumb rubbing relentlessly against her swollen clit and the other one who's straddling her now, cock nudging against her cunt…

"And I'm going to have to put my hand over your mouth, Faith, because you're still making those delicious little sounds even though I expressly forbid it. You'll have to remind me to give you a severe and thorough spanking when we're back in the office – not that I'm likely to forget."

"God, Wes… just want you to fuck me," she grits out, straining her ears for the sound of his hand moving faster along his cock, fingers twisting over the damp head, getting wet, getting messy.

"Even though you're spread out when I begin to fuck you, it's always a surprise how tight you are. And I have to go slowly, Faith. You're a pleasure that I don't want to rush and we absolutely can't make a sound. Your teeth are biting into my hand, which is another thing I'll have to punish you for tomorrow. I can feel your cunt fluttering against me…"

He stops and her hips are lifting up off the bed as she drives her fingers in faster, harder, only vaguely aware of the high pitched little cries that she's making.

"That's my Faith," he gasps. "My beautiful Faith fucking herself… such pretty sounds…"

"You… are you?"

"Yes, of course I am," he mutters in a strained voice. "I want you to come now, Faith. Come for me. Just for me."

And he's silent after that. But not really because she can hear how his breaths catch in his throat because she's spasming out her want and love and need and not holding back anything. Especially not his name because she can't stop saying it over and over again like it's a magic chant that will bring him back to her. He gives one tiny groan that sounds like it hurts and she wishes she could feel him spurting inside her.

They're both panting in unison and she's clutching the phone in a hot, sweaty grip as she rolls over and snuggles against the pillow.

"That was even better than the last time we did the phone sex, Wes," she says when she can actually string a sentence together and he gives a laugh that sounds grateful.

"I suppose it was rather," he muses, before clearing his throat. "You're a very wicked girl, Faith, to bully me into such unnatural acts with a phone."

"Yeah, yeah," she mock-snarls, relieved beyond all measure that he's not ringing off with stammered apologies or even worse, a terse goodbye. "Like you didn't totally get off on it."

"As long as you don't expect a repeat performance every night," he says lightly. "And you're not to start sending me obscene emails describing what you're wearing or not wearing," he adds sternly. "Because my productivity levels will plummet and there is the small matter of time. Of giving me some, yes?"

It's a charming, clever speech, designed not to offend but to let her know that she needs to back off. But she's got her fingers crossed behind her back as she agrees demurely. "I'd never do that, Wes. Light-hearted emails coming up, check, but we can still speak on the phone on Sundays right? And, y'know, now that we've done this once, doesn't seem like it would hurt if…"

"Faith! Really, you're utterly incorrigible," he chides her with just the faintest bite to his voice. "Let's see how things are next Sunday, shall we?"

"I guess…"

"And stop pouting. I can hear you pouting, it's quite extraordinary."

"I'm totally not!" she protests but he's laughing like he doesn't believe her.

"Good night, Faith, sleep well," he says and he's still laughing even as he hangs up.

Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty One

She sleeps well, just as if that final comment had been an order, and she wakes with so much purpose and resolve filling her that she could probably leap tall buildings if she put her mind to it, but she doesn't bother trying, because she's planning and plotting and God, he's so doomed.

Just thinking of that puts a smug, secret smile on her face as she walks into the office and boots up the computer. Part of her brain is screaming warnings about getting too confident, based on nineteen years of being disappointed at every fucking turn, but she's only got to remember him telling her to come for him, calling her his beautiful Faith, and the scream fades to a thwarted whimper.

But she's promised him to back off, and she does. There's nothing his mother couldn't have read in the email she sends him telling him all about her Saturday night experience and how her fingernails are still stained cobalt-blue and vermilion from the painting, and Tuesday's, when she earnestly asks him a series of technical questions on Monty's behalf that prompt a three page long screed of references and pertinent citations, is just so fucking industrious and obedient of her that she deserves a pat on the head.

Which she gets just before she goes home Tuesday night as one final email arrives from him:



Bill for research and supply of data re the 1966 case of Deward v the State of Florida.

Amount due; three pages of literature, to be read aloud at 9.01 precisely on Sunday November 21.

W. Wyndam-Pryce Esq.

And even as she's smiling, she's wondering what to say in the minute he's given her that'll keep him on the phone after she's finished reading.

Wednesday morning she wakes early and stares at the clock until it gets to 7.30 before calling him. She's a little bit curious about how he'll sound when he's not expecting it to be her and yeah, it's his crisp voice, not sounding at all sleepy.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Wes."

"Faith?" The crispness softens, just for a second there as he says her name and she can't help hoping that maybe he's spent the night dreaming about her, woken up wishing she was beside him... "I – what do you want?"

And she's got to do this just right, and she's panicking a little, because it had seemed like such a good idea when she'd thought of it, but now, this early in the morning – but they'd never played their games to a timetable, never restricted them to the night. Time he remembered that; time she worked her way into his life again, 24/7, just like it used to be.

"I'm getting dressed to go to work, Wesley," she says. "Monty's got clients coming in this morning, important account, and I want to, like made a good impression when they walk in, you know?"

"Very laudable of you, but I still don't see why that necessitates a call to me at – Good Lord, Faith, the crack of dawn for you."

"Suppose you've been up for hours?" she asks tartly because if there's one thing they don't agree on, and never will, it's the idea that there's anything clever about waking up early.

"Since six," he admits, sounding faintly smug. "I exercised, breakfasted, showered... and now I'm about to leave."

He puts a slight emphasis on the last word in a not-very-subtle hint and she ignores it, keeping her voice calm and unhurried.

"I want you to tell me what to wear, Wesley."

There's a small silence. "I'm sorry?"

And once, maybe months ago, he could've pulled that off, made her think he was annoyed or indifferent, but not now.

"You know my wardrobe as well as I do, Wes. I don't wear the dresses you got for me, can't dress like that for Monty, just can't, but everything else, yeah, still got it all."

He drops the pretence. "Faith, this is crossing a line. I asked you to give me time."

"I did. I gave you two days." She takes a deep breath. "Ring off then, Wes. Slam the door in my face. Go and hide. Waste more time agonizing away or just shoving every thought of me – of us – out of your mind. Bet you're good at that by now."

There's another few seconds of loaded silence – and God, do they drag – and then he sighs in what has to be defeat, before saying firmly. "I'd like you to hang up now, Faith, and go and sit on your bed, feet side by side, hands on your knees. You're to remain like that until I call you back. What time do you start work?"

"Nine," she whispers, forcing out the words through the lump in her throat.

"I'll call you from my office."

The click is as sharp as a slap and this time it's welcome.

She carries the phone to the bed and places it beside her before sitting as she's been told, eyes fixed on the wall, clit throbbing gently in time with her rapid, shivery breathing.

He calls her twenty-five minutes later and she can hear the muted sounds of the office behind him. He doesn't waste time with a greeting.

"The polka-dot shirt and the black skirt with the two buttons at the waistband. It's a little too short, but no matter. Your usual office shoes. When you arrive at the office, you're to send me an email giving me your time of arrival. If you've made yourself late with this importunate behavior, I'm afraid I'll have to exact a small penalty."

"Yes, Wesley," she murmurs.

"Very well. Good –"

"Wes?"

"Faith, I really don't have time –"

"Just wanted to say thanks," she says softly.

She can hear him sigh. "I think you're owed them," he says finally. "You annoyed me terribly, you know, but – thank you."

"You're welcome," she says.

"Now I suggest you hurry." There's that drawl back in his voice and a hint of amusement. "Or you'll be late."

The click's gentle but decisive and she's left smiling at the phone and stretching because sitting still that long's left her wicked stiff.

Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty Two

She's still got this totally sappy smile on her face as she logs into her email at precisely 9.11 am and begins to type. Can't help but love Wes' idea of a small penalty whatever it might be. Just means he's back in the game. Back to thinking about her. Back to thinking about punishing her and that always ends up well…



Hey Wes

Yeah, I'm eleven minutes late. But Monty never gets bent out of shape about it so it's no big deal.
I had to have this whole chat with my Mom about how I was going to be late and then I had to stand in line for ages for my double caramel latte (I'm completely addicted to them now btw, I've put on, like ten pounds since you left) and then I got into this whole thing where I didn't have the right change.
So, yeah, a whole ELEVEN minutes late. Do your worst!

Faith

And that added sassiness is just going to put the cherry on top of her penalty because he always hated her getting all cheeky when he was on stern mode.

She's got a shit-eating grin on her face for the next ten minutes as she opens the mail and tries to imagine exactly what Wes is going to dream up. Maybe he'll turn up in person to administer 11 hard slaps to her ass 'cause life is always that good. And yeah, it's going to be difficult for him to come up with something effective, being all long distance and stuff, but he's always been really creative so she's not going to worry too much about it.

When she hears her email ping, she practically skips back to her desk and eagerly opens his email.




Dear Faith

Try as I might, I can't muster up any surprise for your tardiness. And yes the circumstances for your lateness seem convincing but they're excuses, not reasons.

There's also the not inconsiderable matter that I asked you to give me time, not to push me in a direction that I'm not entirely willing to go, so I shall deal with that infraction first and leave the matter of your scant regard for punctuality to a later date.

I don't want you to contact me for 24 hours. I'm technically proficient enough to block your email address and telephone numbers from my equipment but I'm putting trust in your obedience that I won't have to employ such a drastic measure.

I'm sure that I will hear from you tomorrow. But not sooner.

Wes

Oh yeah, he's fucking creative all right, and she's already clicking on reply and stopping herself just in time by the sheer force with which she scrapes back her chair and heaves herself to her feet.

He's so not playing fair. And OK, maybe she hasn't been either. But there's not playing fair and then there's being completely, totally, utterly, absolutely evil with added bits of evilness. She'd also bet an entire weeks' worth of double caramel lattes that her punishment for being late is going to be some other mean method of making sure that her plot to have him realize that he can't fucking live without her for longer a second gets all back fired.

She spends the rest of the day in a steaming temper. And she has to do all this work and it's not fun when she can't send him an email to moan about some woman who screamed at her down the phone when she said that Monty was in a meeting or to tell him about her lunch with Xander who's still way infatuated with his new boyfriend even though he looks a lot like Clay Aiken. Doesn't help that she has to grit her teeth and smile sweetly when Xander remarks with a certain amount of smugness that she's got her groove back in the last few weeks.

"Guess it's down to all the tough love we've been giving you, Faithy," he says with a proud grin. "And how would you feel about going out on a date with Holden Webster?"

Faith very nearly spits root beer all over the table top. "Indifferent," she says finally. "I don't want to go out on a date with anyone."

"But Webbo's been hot for you ever since seventh grade and we could double date. We could go bowling!" Xander protests and if he doesn't stop with the yenta act she's going to prize his eyes out of their sockets with a spoon.

"Holden's cool, he's a nice guy but no point, Xand. He's not my type and if you say one word about what my type is that involves the words 'spanking', 'British', 'uptight' or 'pervert' then you're gonna be wearing your ice cream float. Capiche?"

The afternoon doesn't get much better. She has to type out a deposition for this financial fraud case that has far too many tables in it for her liking and she never realized how much time she'd started to spend emailing Wes. Now she can't because he'll stretch the no-contact rule to 48 hours or 72 hours or whatever comes after 72, she knows he will.

Somehow she makes it through the evening because it's the start of this yoga course at the community college that Dru wanted to go to. She can't really see the point of all that stretching and chanting but Dru just gives her a wicked smile when she hisses, "This sucks," as she wobbles through her very first Downward Dog.

"Stop moaning, dearie. This will give you muscle control."

"Like, whatever, Dru. Don't need muscle control to aim the remote at the TV."

"Not talking about those muscles."

And over a couple of jugs of Margaritas in the Mexican bar across the street, which never cards, Dru tells her more about kegel muscles than she ever wants to know. Or at least she pretends that it's really gross but she makes herself a solemn vow to do 100 pelvic squeezes every day. Though she can't really see what the point of it is 'cause Mr Don't Contact Me For 24 Hours is probably going to take at least ten years to sort out his fucking issues.

Might be all that soreness and alcohol but she falls asleep as soon as she slumps into bed. Only wakes up before her alarm goes off because she's parched and her phone's ringing. She squints at the clock to find that it's only 6.15 and pulls the pillow over her head. And then she comes to with a start because there's only one person who'd ever call her this early and still live to tell the tale.

"I thought I wasn't meant to contact you for 24 hours," she slurs grumpily down the phone.

"Good morning, Faith," he practically chirps. "And I do believe that I'm contacting you, which is an entirely different thing."

Not even Wes phoning her can shake her awake. "Well call me back in an hour. Gotta sleep."

"But Faith you were so keen for me to take charge of your wardrobe yesterday that I thought I'd extend my remit today. I want you out of bed now. Come on, chop, chop."

"And I want you to bite me," she offers sulkily, and she's only half joking because she can still remember how he'd nibble on this little spot just behind her ear when he wanted to schedule in a little pre-breakfast fucking.

"Get out of bed now. I won't tell you again," he snaps and he's gone from chipper to icy in the blink of an eye so she's swinging her legs from under the covers and standing, yawning before she even realizes it.

"I'm up," she grunts. "Satisfied?"

"Not remotely," he says lightly and that's too loaded a statement for her to even begin to process. "And I'd forgotten how thoroughly bad tempered you can be first thing in the morning."

"Not bad tempered, Wes, just sleep deprived."

"Then a cold shower should be just the thing to revive you. You're to spend five minutes getting washed. Then I want you to shave yourself perfectly smooth – are you still…?" he pauses delicately and she knows exactly what he means and why he's suddenly silent and she doesn't feel an ounce of sympathy for him.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," she hisses because she's suddenly turned into a ten-year-old.

"We could stop this right now, Faith, if you'd prefer," he warns her and it's so unfair. He's so unfair.

"Don't want that, Wes," she mumbles, her voice soft for the first time. "What do you want me to do after that?"

"I want you to clean your teeth," he orders smoothly like they've been no interruptions. "Two minutes for the top row, starting on your left hand side. Then two minutes for the bottom row, starting in the same place. After that you're to moisturize and do anything else that needs to be done while you're in the bathroom and then you're to sit on your bed without getting dressed, hands by your side, and await further instructions. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify?"

"No, sir."

"Good."

She does it all, even the shower turned on to the arctic setting and then sits, skin tingling and rosy pink, on her bed for another three minutes until her phone rings again.

"I trust you're wide awake now, Faith?" he purrs. "Wide awake and raring to go?"

"Well, maybe the wide awake part," she says ruefully and he laughs and she wishes she was with him because Wes in a good mood first thing in the morning used to get her all kinds of treats.

"Now it's time for us to decide what you're going to wear today… one of your black dresses, I think," he muses even though she knows damn well he's been planning this ever since he sent her that email yesterday.

"Wes, I can't…" she protests weakly. "It's not appropriate."

"I think we'll forgo the corset on this occasion," he continues like she hasn't even spoken. "So that black underwear set I bought you with the pink ribbons will have to suffice. But I must insist on stockings and your old office shoes. Hurry along and I'll call you back in ten minutes."

She does it all. All day. Every phoned order she gets, she obeys with minimum snark. The one to tell her what to eat for breakfast. The one forbidding her from her usual mid-morning cigarette. The one at lunch-time. The one just after lunch when he tells her to forgo her usual diet Coke for a glass of water instead. The one where he forbids her her usual mid-afternoon cigarette break. The one after work where he tells her to walk home instead of catching the bus. And Darla's vibrating with curiosity when she gets six phone calls that evening, ranging from dinner and snack requirements to severely curtailing her plans to watch The Gilmore Girls in favour of "a nice, improving book."

It takes her an hour just to get ready for bed because he's on the phone every five minutes with demands to paint her toe nails, get her clothes ready for work all laid out on the chair and by the time she's snuggled up in bed at precisely 10.30pm, which is still practically the afternoon, she's seething.

Yeah, it's kinda cool and heartwarming and shit that he still knows her. Has her daily routine etched into the fabric of his life so firmly. But he's spent months away from her now and when they were together she was used to his orders. Always finding a way to wriggle out of the ones she didn't like and not just 'cause it might get her a bed-time spanking. But now… but now, it's not the same. She's not so lost that she needs him to find her. Not so insecure and muddled that she can't make her own decisions. If or, like, when they get back together, stuff was going to be different. She'd still take his orders, still get wet when he commanded her to do something but she's a year older now and she's, like, a lifetime wiser and she's not waiting desperately for his validation anymore. Wants it, yeah, craves it too. But it's not the fucking be-all and end-all of her existence anymore And that's a good thing. Well, mostly.

When the phone goes just as she's started the last chapter of Kavalier and Clay, she gives a sigh and answers it.

"Hey, Wes. What is it now? Want me to get out of bed and do twenty stomach crunches or something?"

He gives this indulgent little chuckle, which annoys the fuck out of her after all the crap he's pulled. "I think not. Did you learn anything today, Faith?"

"Yeah, that I am never going to call you and ask you for fashion advice, like, ever again," she says fiercely. "You worked my last fucking nerve around dinner time, Wes, with that whole 'go out and get some fresh vegetables' routine."

"Well, at least when I tell you now that I need time, I think you'll respect my decision, yes?"

"Yeah," she sighs in agreement. "But really you should be, like, flattered that I still think you're worth fighting for."

"I am," he says quietly and then his voice gets brisker. "Still, I think today has been a thorough lesson in how you can have too much of a good thing. I trust that you'll think very carefully before phoning me up again to solicit my opinion."

"You bet," she giggles and then her evil twin who doesn't seem to have paid any attention to the little pep talk she gave her five minutes ago pipes up. "You don't have to stop, Wes. Even if you wanted to call me freakishly early tomorrow morning."

"Think of it as your final punishment for pushing me too far and fast," he bites out and before she can even summon up some really good outrage, he sweetens the blow. "Of course, you were still eleven minutes late for work. And although I had plans to wait until Sunday to exact punishment, I'd rather hate to impede your literary recitation."

"My head's gonna spin clean off my neck with all these mixed signals, Wes," she tells him. "One minute you're telling me to back the hell off and the next you're making all kinds of promises."

"I didn't say what form the punishment would take, did I?" he reminds her softly. "But I apologize if I'm causing you undue mental anguish and I probably shouldn't ask you to remove the tank top and pajama bottoms I told you to put on half an hour ago."

Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty Three

"I've been doing like you say all day, Wes," she says, smiling now. "Be a pity to stop now, just when it's getting interesting."

"I'm not sure you'll be any happier with the orders to come," he tells her rather sternly. "Or are you forgetting this is a punishment for being late?"

"No, but ..."

"And are you forgetting what – who – I am?" he says remorselessly. "Is distance and my unattainable status lending enchantment to the view?"

"Wes, just tell me what you're getting at," she snaps, losing the smile.

"Why, given my nature, would I not take the greatest of delight in making you suffer? Especially when I'm more than a little annoyed with you on one level? You used to trust me to, ah, ensure that we both emerged satisfied from an encounter, but that's a little more difficult situated as we are, isn't it?"

"Still don't know what the fuck you're getting at," she says flatly.

"I want to make sure you're still... willing to play," he replies. "Or am I incorrect in my belief that I sensed a certain restiveness about you today?"

And it's fucking scary the way he does that, and she's left gaping at the phone. "Little bit," she admits. "I know you were way over the top with it to make a point, but you could do that again, yeah?"

"I might," he says evenly. "Particularly now I know you dislike it."

"That's new," she comments, gripping hold of the phone. "Never used to do that."

"Are you sure?"

And this is such a fucking loaded conversation that she's getting chills.

"Wes, you can't have it both ways, all ways," she says, with the words bursting out of her. "You left because I was too keen to please you, wouldn't say anything to stop you, no matter how far you went. So I've changed. And not just for you, either. I'll tell you straight, looking back, yeah, maybe there were times I should've used my safe word and I didn't, but not many. You were pretty good at knowing my limits."

"I'm relieved to hear it," he says tightly.

"And now, what with all this reading, could be you'll find my limits have changed. Can't deny I'm getting all kinds of curious about stuff I'd like to try, and finding out just what you want to do you never got around to."

"I'm not sure you'd like –"

"Well, see, you don't know, Wes," she interrupts, temper sparking. "Look at it this way; how far did I go in fourteen weeks? Quick learner, was I?"

"You were incredible," he says without hesitation. "Responsive, imaginative, so brave, always... and so beautifully vulnerable and open."

"Shit, Wes," she murmurs, shaken out of her bad temper. "That's – quite the testimonial."

"You're quite an extraordinary woman," he tells her.

"I've had months to get better," she says softly. "Months to get stronger. Maybe I won't be quite as vulnerable these days, Wes. Really don't see me reacting the way I did when my dad – well, won't go into that, but I'm done being pushed around."

"You were saying about mixed signals," he says. "Aren't you sending some? Have you discovered you're more suited to give than receive?"

And it's an interesting idea, phrased so politely, but  - "No. I don't think so. That hasn't changed." She sighs. "I haven't changed that much. This – what we do - I kinda stumbled into it by accident the first time around."

"I forced it on you," he says. "And I'd like to be able to say I sensed you were willing, but I think it would be a lie. I simply wanted you too much to resist you."

"Don't know about that," she says thoughtfully. "I'd like to think you saw something in me too, but it doesn't matter. I'm more interested in now. I want you, Wes. Want you because I need you. I couldn't live without you before; I'd hurt when you were away, I'd feel lost, scared. You protected me. But now, well, I don't need you, not the same way. I can look after myself." She takes a deep breath. "I can live without you, Wes. But I don't want to, because I love you and I fucking love what you do to me. And I can't see a single fucking reason why I should have to miss out on that."

"That's good," he says, a little sourly, "but there are two of us involved. You might have adjusted with impressive ease but I'm –"

"What? Did you just say this was fucking easy?" she snarls. "Listen to me, you fucking bastard, this has been hell. I've suffered enough that if you'd been around to see it, your cock would've been, like, permanently, hard if that's what gets you off. I've cried and there was one night – no, lots of nights when I came so close to giving up – You left me at the bottom of a fucking grave, Wes, and I clawed my way out of it. Don't you ever fucking tell me it was easy."

"I –" His voice is shaking now and she waits, tight-lipped and simmering. "I'm sorry."

"It's not good enough," she hisses. "Nothing is but an end to this bullshit and I can't fucking do this any more when I don't know, when I'm not sure –"

"I love you." He says it so fast she can't quite take it in. "Faith, I love you and that hasn't changed, will never change. I'm trying to be sure because I won't ever risk hurting you again by leaving you. Why can't you see that I'm trying?"

"Because you're not," she says softly, sadly. "It's all been me, Wes. Me pushing, me making the running. Not getting anything from you that I don't have to work for, really hard."

'Too hard?" he questions.

"Not yet."

"We do seem to have painted ourselves into different corners of the room, haven't we?" he sighs. "I'm... at a loss, frankly."

"You're making it too complicated," she says. "You're in charge, Wes. Make it simple."

There's a long pause. "Simple. Faith, since I met you, my life's been anything but that."

"Wish you'd employed someone like Harmony instead?" she asks.

His shudder's enough to lighten the mood a little. "Dear Lord, no. And I didn't say I minded it being complex. You were – and are – a challenge, Faith. You know me well enough to be aware that I prefer it that way."

"Give me something then, Wes," and she's all but begging now.

"I want you back in my life," he says slowly. "I want it more than I can say. I'm even allowing myself to hope that it's possible –"

"Really is, Wes," she says eagerly.

"Please don't interrupt," he says mildly. "But I will not be stampeded towards our mutual goal by your impatience, Faith. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," she sighs. "But –"

"Do you understand, Faith?" And there's a steely edge to his voice that has her swallowing nervously.

"Yes, Wesley."

"Excellent. I think we've made some progress today, Faith. You've been most forthcoming, for which I thank you, and given me a good deal to think about."

"Well –" she begins uncertainly, because he's going all mercurial on her ass again, isn't he?

"But before I leave you in peace for the evening, there's one more matter to attend to, isn't there? Tell me what it is, Faith."

"What? Oh! I was late for work. Eleven minutes late."

"Indeed you were. Take off your clothes, if you haven't already." His voice drops into a silky drawl. "Tell me when you're naked."

"I'm naked now," she reports about four seconds later.

"Commendably fast. Now, were I to be within reach of you, I think I'd most certainly begin this little disciplinary session with a spanking." His voice takes on a reflective tone. "It's been so long... I've missed the sounds you used to make, the way your skin would heat against my hand... the way you'd cry even as you arched up pleading wordlessly for more... If you can tell me the last time I spanked you, Faith, I might be less severe."

And she's certain he doesn't mean what he did with the switch and, yeah, she remembers. Still not going to tell him, though. And fuck, she's wet now and her ass is tingling as if it remembers too.

"I know when it was, Wes. Can I tell you afterwards?"

"But – ah. I see." His voice warms. "You may. Now go and fetch your hairbrush. The one I gave you."

Her gaze goes to it, sitting on top of the dressing table. She walks over to it and gets all wistful thinking of him dragging the brush slowly through her hair, taking his time over the mundane task, making a ritual of caring out of it.

"Got it," she says, lying back on the bed.

"For the next eleven minutes you're to follow my instructions precisely," he tells her. "If at any time they go beyond what you wish, then you've only to say –?"

"It's still 'Neruda'," she tells him.

"I thought it might be. Is your back fully healed?" he asks blandly.

It takes her a second to catch up and when she does, she chuckles. "Yeah..."

"I think I have it narrowed down to three possibilities, but, you know, I'd rather discover which is correct first-hand I think, and I'm sure I will in all good time." His voice sharpens. "Lie back, Faith and I want you to drag the bristles of the brush very slowly over your right nipple."

She does it, catching her breath.

"Again. Harder."

And she does it again, and again, until the tender skin of her breast is crossed with dozens of red lines, fading and flushing bright again as she grits her teeth and repeats the downward stroke.

"That will do for now," he says and he sounds so in control, a world away from the man who sent her chocolate and made her smile with his thoughts on pink poodles... but it's all Wesley, all of it.

"Roll onto your side, Faith. Into a position where you can apply the smooth side of the brush to your arse. You're going to give yourself eleven blows, Faith, as hard as you can. You told me once that this was one thing I couldn't do while I was away, and I found that naivety rather charming... I'll count for you, Faith, as if I left it up to you, I think you might rush it, don't you? Tell me when you're ready."

She props the phone beside her head and gets into position with the brush clutched firmly in her hand before choking out, "Ready." Her heart's pounding with a heavy, slow thud and as she brings her knee forward to stretch the skin over her ass taut the way he's telling her to, she feels the slick heat between her legs.

"One," he says and she knows he can hear the flat smack of the wood against her ass because he sighs, and by the time they get to seven he's having trouble keeping his voice level and she's gasping for breath because each smack is landing in the same place and although it's nothing compared to what she's used to, the fact is, she isn't used to it anymore and there's something so fucking hot about him making her do this to herself that she's whimpering less because of the spreading stinging smart and more because of the emptiness inside her cunt and the hunger that's threatening to spill out into a babble of words, if only she could remember any, with him intoning, 'Ten' and finally 'Eleven' in her ear like that.

She drops the bush and rolls to her stomach, panting heavily. "Wes?" she croaks, her hand scrabbling for the phone. "Wes, I'm fucking dying here. Please."

"I wasn't going to let you come, actually, and certainly not within the eleven minutes."

She swallows down the anguished scream that rises to her lips. "How long do I have left?"

"Long enough," he says calmly. "I'm sure I heard you move without permission, so I'm not inclined to be lenient, although you did do that so very well. Really." She smiles, squirming lazily against the quilt. "Onto your back now, and I want you to fuck yourself with the handle of the brush, Faith, as hard as you like, but you're not to come."

She whimpers as she rolls over, whimpers as the polished wood, warm from her hand, slips inside her, swallowed up by her needy cunt. She doesn't hold back a single moan and when he tells her to describe how it feels she launches into an increasingly fervent comparison between the brush and his cock that has him chuckling unfeelingly. When she's pressing her heels down into the mattress and her hand's blurring as it drives the handle inside her over and again, he whispers, "Stop."

"Wes!"

"Did you stop when I said?"

"Yes, yes, God, do I sound like I've come?" she shrieks.

"Oh, how much I wish I was there right now," he mutters. "I'd have you regretting that tone of voice..."

"I'm sorry," she says, all hasty penitence. "Wesley..."

"Tell me when I spanked you last, Faith."

And she's all set to launch into a description; it was right after the contract negotiations, after the blow job she'd swapped for his signature, but she smiles.

"It was about, what, two minutes ago, Wes?"

And when he laughs and murmurs, "My clever Faith," she's grinning with him.

"I'm going now," he says.

"But –"

"I haven't finished with you, Faith," he says, warning her to silence. "Clean the brush and you're to sit on the edge of the bed and give your hair the traditional hundred strokes. No rushing. Then you may do whatever you like to achieve release. Good night." He hesitates and then says softly, "Do you know when I came, Faith?"

She shakes her head but he can't see that so she murmurs, "No..."

"On the stroke of one."

And he hangs up as she starts to snicker.

Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty Four

Sometimes she feels like she's floating through time, the days and the hours and the minutes and the seconds measured out in the emails she's just got, the emails she's going to send. It's all words. Words that don't really spell out her hopes or dreams or fears because, yeah, Wes, message received and understood. And they're back on the light-hearted setting with no way to say what she wants to say.

I miss you.

I think about you all the time, even when I'm asleep.

I want you more than I ever did.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

The weekend drags by because she's computerless and internetless and Wesless. And paying a visit to the local cyber café smacks of a desperation she's not allowed to show because he's got to have his precious time to figure out the fucking obvious.

Not that she likes the resentment that's beginning to gnaw away at her insides but all it takes it his lazy, "Hello, Faith," when she calls him on Sunday night to make everything melt away but the mushy feeling that sweeps all over her, especially when he confesses that he went out for brunch that turned into a long, alcoholic afternoon with Lindsey and Giles and that, "I'm feeling surprisingly mellow so I have to trust you not to take advantage of my slightly intoxicated state."

She doesn't because man, she doesn't even know where to begin. Instead she reads him six pages of Bonjour Tristesse and when she gets to the last lines, "My one wish was to give up all my plans and put myself entirely into her hands for the rest of my life. I had never before been so overcome with a sense of my utter impotence. I closed my eyes. It seemed to me my heart had stopped beating."

For one moment she thinks she's going to get version whatever fucking number he's on of the "give me more time" lecture, now with added bite but he just makes this weird snuffly noise and launches into this unprompted monologue… nah, not the right word… like, this soliloquy to the joys of going down on her and then he begs, fucking begs her to start masturbating. 'Cept Wes, even drunk Wes, never goes quite so far as to beg.

"I want you to bring yourself off, Faith. Want your fingers causing havoc in your beautiful, wet cunt," he purrs, voice all low and husky right in her ear. "And please feel free to make as much noise as you deem fit while you're doing it."

When she finally hangs up and goes into the kitchen, all pink faced and kinda smug, Darla's already there eating ice cream with an extra spoon all waiting for her.

"We need to talk, Faithy," she says, because the You and Your Difficult Teenager Handbook must have advised her to get the Super Fudge Chunk out and then launch right in. "What's going on with you and him."

She takes her time answering, long enough to dig her spoon into the ice cream and let it melt on her tongue. "I thought you were at Ted's," she mumbles.

Darla allows herself a tiny smile because she's so goddamn loved up at the moment that even the mention of Ted's name makes her go all dreamy. Then she snaps out of it and gives Faith her pissiest look. Which doesn't even register after being on the receiving end of all of Wes' pissiest looks. "Well, I was and then I came home and wondered why you'd never told me you were working part-time as a phone sex operator."

And then her face flushes bright crimson, just a few shades lighter than Faith's own impersonation of a stop light. "Oh shit! You heard? Man…"

"I couldn't help but hear," Darla squeaks indignantly. "Thought you were being fucking murdered or something. And then you screeched his name and as you spend all your time on your cell… Jesus, Faith!"

She's thinking really hard about getting a knife from the drawer and stabbing herself because there can't be anything in the world more embarrassing than your mother hearing your sex noises, especially when Wes was on the other end of the phone telling her that her whimpers were making him hard.

"I just can't talk about this with you right now," she hisses, clutching the tub of ice cream to her face because it feels like it's on fire.

Darla's also looking like she wishes she was somewhere else but then her chin lifts up like the very definition of a brave, little soldier and she makes it a million times worse. "I've never… I just, well I didn't think girls had to do that unless they were, like, dykes, you know."

"Do what? Masturbate? Are we gonna have to have a sex talk where I explain to you what the clitoris is and why you should get to know where it is and why…"

"He's gonna end up hurting you all over again, sweetie," Darla butts in because as well as making wicked chocolate chip cookies maybe Ted is actually giving her happies.

It's still weird how natural it feels to lean across the table and squeeze Darla's hand. "He won't because I'm not gonna let him, Mom," she pleads softly. "And nothing can hurt more than not being with him. I still love him and he still loves me, we just gotta work out a way to be together."

"You're not going to New York!" Darla's voice is so shrill that dogs all over the neighborhood must be yelping in solidarity. "I'm not having you all alone there with just him. And it's full of junkies and prostitutes and what if he throws you out? Or he hurts you? And you've got no money and you're out on the street and, I know you, Faithy, you'll be too fucking proud to call me…"

"I wouldn't. I'll call you every week," she protests. "Every fucking day, if it makes you happy but when he tells me he's ready then I'm going." And she's crying now because he might never be ready and even though she hates this shitty little town it's full of people she cares about who she's going to leave behind. "I can't be happy if I'm not with him."

"But you're doing so well, baby," Darla's clutching her hand so tight that her knuckles are white with it. "I'm so proud of you with your fancy job and your new friends. Just stick it out for a little bit longer. Six months, Faithy, and then if you still want to go, fine."

Faith can't help the anguished groan at the thought of another six months with nothing to get her through but email and phone calls. "Look, Mom, it means a lot to me, like you mean a lot to me and I never thought I'd say that but I just feel like part of me... this fucking huge part of me is missing because he's not here and I miss him so much. Rather have three more months with him even if he kicks me out at the end of it then never get to be with him ever again."

They go round in circles, the ice cream melting on the table between them. Darla cries and shouts and even threatens to send her to a convent, which cranks up the hysteria all the way to the eleven because in a mood shift so blink-and-you-miss-it-fast that's almost a hangover to the bad old day and worse night of vodka-fuelled spite, Darla starts laughing.

"Gonna get you measured up for a goddamn habit, Faithy," she chokes, throwing up her hands in the air. "What the fuck am I meant to do with you, you stupid little girl? I knew we should have sent you to Catholic school."

And she gets this wave of tenderness that she's never associated with Darla again. Makes her begin to cry all over again and throw her arms around her. "They'd have kicked me out before my first Mass," she sobs and it's good to be a little girl again. Have Darla tuck her into bed and stroke her hair and tell her that everything's going to be all right.

"I'm going to come up there and give him hell if he's not treating you right," she coos. "And we can go and have beauty treatments like in Sex And The City. Is he, like, your Mr Big, Faithy?"

"No, he's fucking not! He's, like, my Mr Darcy or some guy out of a black and white movie," she murmurs. "Don't stop stroking my hair, I'm nearly asleep."

She's just drifting off when Darla kisses the top of her head and gets up. "I tell you one thing, sweetie," she says as she clicks off the light. "No way in hell am I telling Xander about this."

Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty Five

The next morning, even before she emails Wes – who's gonna be suffering and serve him right, she thinks primly, virtuously smug as she'd stuck to Coke all night, she emails Xander.



Hey, Xander

If I had, like $500, no, scratch that, $350, to spare, could you get me online? One of your geek pals has to have a spare computer lying around, right? Doesn't have to be fancy; not gonna be playing games on it. Just the basics... and tell 'em to wipe the fucking Klingon porn off the hard drive first, OK?

Faith



She's half way through her email to Wes when he replies, and it's a bit fucking weird to go from telling Wes how adorable he was when he was drunk (which is another word she bets he puts on the forbidden adjective list) to exchanging insults with Xan but she manages it.



Faith: think you missed out the 'pretty please, and you'll be my hero and I'll fucking worship you for ever' bit but seeing as it's you.... $350? Nah. Leave it with me.

What's with the sudden interest? You're not thinking of trying those online dating chat rooms are you? Because that never ends well. Really. And no power on earth will make me say more than that – but Fritz's frankfurter? More of a weenie, if you know what I mean.

Xander
 
Xander.

First: eww. I so don't wanna hear about the dick size of some loser you picked up. And no, I'm not gonna use it for that. Just need to be able to send emails, that's all. What's the biggie? You've been on at me to get hooked up for years... even if it was just so you could look at porn at my house and not have your parents find out.

Faith

(Pretty please, yeah, but no way am I worshipping a guy who drools at the sight of a joy stick. Though considering the shape of them, I guess I can see the attraction...)

It takes him two hours to get back to her and she actually manages to get some work done because Wes is in meetings, and from the terse tone of his email, he's got one hell of a headache...



Faith.

Get your hands on $200 and we'll be around at 8.00 to set you up.

X

Xander

We? What we? Who? No way is some nerd with a panty-sniffing obsession coming into my bedroom.

F

Dear Faith

Just so happens Holden upgraded last month and he's got a sweet system just waiting for a girl he's madly in – well, let's not go there; I just ate. He wanted $150 when I told him it was you, but I beat him up to $200.

Shower me with gratitude any time you like.

X



X

Bite me.

F

(Thanks. I guess)



They stagger in, laden with equipment at eight exactly, and an hour later she's knocking beer bottles with them and smiling with satisfaction at the addition to her room. She'd hesitated about dipping into her 'anywhere but here' fund, but it stands to reason that if she can work on Wes seven days a week, he'll crack even sooner. And she's kinda looking forward to doing some research online too... she's read the books from Spike and there were some sites mentioned that looked interesting...

"This is so cool of you," she says, beaming at Holden. "Really. Thanks."

He gives her this cute little grin and if Xander hadn't been all eager eyes she might've planted one on his cheek, but she settles for returning the grin and eying her computer proudly.

Holden wanders over to it and sits down. "Want me to add my email to your address book?" he offers. "So if anything crops up, I'm just a mouse-click away?" He pats the keyboard. "She's got her little ways but ..."

"Yeah, sure," Faith says hastily before he gets so sentimental he unplugs it and carries it home. "That'd be great. And it's all set up so I can get to my gmail account, right?"

He nods, doing some fancy swooshing of the mouse on the desk. "You've got incoming even as we speak," he says, standing up. "Might want to set up some spam filters. Unless you're really keen on a larger penis, a Rolex watch and a green card."

She grins. "Think I'll pass on those. You're not sticking around?"

He shakes his head. "I'm filling in for my sister at the pizza place this week. I need the cash and she's off to Maine for Thanksgiving with her new boyfriend. Catch you later, Xander."

When she gets back from seeing him out Xander's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back turned away from the computer.

"You've got mail," he says, raising his beer bottle to his lips and taking a slow, careful sip.

"Yeah? What is it this time?"

He doesn't answer and she steps close enough to see – oh fuck. Wes wrote back.

"I didn't read it," Xander says. "And I'm not going to get all in your face about it, but – what the fuck are you thinking?" The bottle gets slammed down on the nightstand, beer boiling up and frothing over. Xander shakes his wet hand and glares at her. "Six months ago I stopped you torching his place. Held you while you sobbed and told me he was a bastard and you hated him. Now you're playing kissy-face in cyber space? What the hell happened? What is wrong with you?"

When he puts it like that she can see why he's mad, and there's enough hurt in his eyes to keep her voice gentle as she sits down beside him, reaching out and grabbing his dry hand.

"Quick version – Lilah gave me his email and his phone number. I – I sent him an email. I wanted to tell him how I felt. Get it off my chest the way I never had chance to."

"And he was just dying to get back to playing with you," Xander says, his lip curling. "Figures."

"He didn't answer any of them," she tells him softly. "Then one night – he called. Didn't say anything, but I knew it was him –"

"That is so fucking creepy!" Xander says indignantly. "Man's got no balls – and no manners."

She rubs her head against his shoulder until he gives in and puts his arm around her. "He's got issues," she admits. "But, long story, short, we're talking now. Emails, phone calls – and he's been sending me the cutest parcels with all this stuff in –"

"Don't wanna know," Xander says promptly. He clears his throat. "Kinky stuff, right? That could so get him in trouble if it got opened at the mail office?"

"Candy," she says, punching his arm. "English candy, and God, Xander, their chocolate bars are to die for."

"And that'd be something else you didn't share?" he asks pointedly.

"Next one I get's all yours," she promises.

"I think it'd choke me, but thanks."

"You're – taking this kinda better than I thought," she ventures.

He moves away, shoving up her pillows and lying back. "You got happy. I kinda noticed that. Wasn't Holden - had to be connected to him."

"I am happy," she says, relieved that he's being nice about it. "And, don't want to jinx it, but I'm really making progress here, Xander. I'll be packing to go to New York before you know it, I'm sure I will."

He stiffens. "What?"

"He's – we've both changed," she says. She reaches under the bed and waves 'Screw the Roses...' in Xander's face. "See? I've been reading up on it all."

"Where – where did you get that?" he asks, twisting his head around to stare at the bound woman on the cover.

"Spike gave it to me."

"He knows about... what you are? About him?"

"I kinda got drunk and said a lot more than I meant to when I stopped over after their Halloween party," she admits.

"You stayed over." His voice is flat. "With those two."

"Yeah... and don't say a fucking word," she warns him. "Two one-night stands in six months don't make me a slut."

"I don't know you," he mutters, knocking the book out of her hand and glaring at her from eyes that were – oh fuck – starting to fill with tears. "You're going to leave and I'll never see you again and shit it wasn't supposed to be this way, Faith."

"What did you think?" she demands. "That me and Wes would, what, stay pen pals or something? I love him, Xander. Not being with him – it's killing me."

"He's going to hurt you again! Why can't you see that?" He's sitting up now and shouting in her face. "It's what he does!"

"You really don't get it, do you?" she says slowly. "What he is – what we are. You've got this narrow-minded perception –"

"Don't try and make this sound like anything but some really kinky shit," he says stonily. "Don't dress it up with fancy words. He's a fucking pervert and you're better than that, Faith. You don't have to be that way." Because he can read her mind as well as Wes sometimes he beats her to it. "And, no, it's not like being gay, so don't even try and tell me it is. You were never like this before you met him. You used to tell me about all the boys you went with; they never did anything like this to you and you never wanted them to."

"They never did anything for me either," she says fiercely. "Wes didn't brainwash me or something, Xander. He just opened my eyes and newsflash, I'm not going to stop liking having my ass spanked or any of the other stuff that gets me off just because he's gone. That's why Holden's not going to cut it. He's nice, but he's not –"

"He's normal," Xander says flatly. "And that's not good enough for you, is it?"

"It's not enough," she corrects him gently. She rolls her eyes. "You know, it's funny, but Wes'd agree more with you than me. He's got this fucked-up idea that he's a freak, that he's bad for me –" She shakes her head. "I'm trying to get him to see if differently, but he's as fucking stubborn as you."

"Maybe you should stop trying to force him to change, Faith," he says pointedly. "Give him some space like he asked you to."

"He loves me, Xander," she says. "He needs me, and it goes both ways. Wish you'd got to know him, wish you could see past what we do in bed – which is none of your freaking business –"

"But it isn't just the sex," Xander says, shaking his head. "He had you doing stuff 24/7. Practically had you in a collar."

She swallows at that image. Wes had never – but – OK, so not the time to be getting dreamy-eyed and yeah, kinda hot thinking about that particular accessory. "Whatever, Xander," she snaps. "Look, as it stands, I don't have my ticket booked. We're taking it slow, so let's just save this." She grips his hand. "Really don't wanna fight. Love you too much for that."

He scrambles across the bed and squeezes her hard enough to hurt. "Love you too, even if your brains have dribbled out your ears and run along the floor –"

"- and I don't need anything but a teaspoon to pick them up," she finishes. "Yeah, yeah, find another insult; that one's dating you. Third grade, right?"

He punches her shoulder lightly. "Second. OK, that's enough drama for one night. I'm going to leave you in peace." He stands up, avoiding looking at the computer. "You going to tell him why his ears were burning tonight?" he says with a forced lightness.

She shakes her head. "Course not. Don't tell him everything, y'know." Which is a stretch of the truth, not an out-and-out lie...

Impulsively, she picks up the book and pushes it into his hands. "Do me a favor? You don't have to read it all, but just take a look?"

He turns it over in his hands. "Do I have to?" he says plaintively.

"Please?" she begs, getting the eyelash fluttering just right.

He caves on cue. "Fine. I'll read it. For you. But you gotta give me a bag to put it in. No way am I walking around with it on display."

She kisses him exuberantly, finds him a plastic bag with the name of a lingerie shop on it, just to teach him, and waves goodnight from the door.

He's barely reached the sidewalk when she's heading upstairs to read Wes' email.

Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty Six

She doesn't want to think about Xander. 'Cause, God knows, she can only focus on one dysfunctional, fucked-up relationship at a time. And right now her heart's beating just a little faster at the thought of Wes' e-mail waiting there for her, unopened.

She pads up the stairs as quietly as possible, a little wary now since Darla's started paying an unhealthy amount of attention to how she spends her time. Wary? Fuck that. Mortified is more like it. She's still blushing head-to-toe at the mere thought when she slips into her room and opens Wes' note.


Faith

I hope you will forgive my… sloppiness last night. I was inebriated and feeling rather sentimental. And you did indulge me so very beautifully, as always.

Getting to work on time this morning was rather a trial. Between the subway strike, my pounding headache, and the hundred pages of annotations to sort through, I fear I've paid for my folly many times over. Not to mention the fact that this case we're working on may very well be my own Ninth Circle.

I do hope your day wasn't quite so thrilling.

Wes

When she thinks of him, poor baby, all stressed out and hung over, she snickers. Yeah, she's not feeling all that sympathetic really.



Wes—

There you go with the indulgence crap again. But thank you. :) And I could honestly use a little of your indulgence right now 'cause Xander's having another one of his periodic hissy fits and oh yeah, my mom kinda overheard our little phone sesh last night. Yeah, seems she thought I was being murdered in my bed or something until I screamed
out your name. Although the former might have been better 'cause if I was actually dead I wouldn't be like, dying of terminal embarrassment every time I think about what she might have heard. Now she's giving me the third degree and thinks I'm crazy for talking to you again. Well, she's trying real hard and she kinda came around
in the end. But I still get the feeling that deep down she thinks it's all a really fucking bad idea. She's just worried you know? It's her job. But, god, I'm so sick of having to justify every last fucking thing about my life to everyone. Really fucking sick of it. Why does
everything have to be so complicated?

I'm tired, and pissed off, and just need to calm the fuck down.

'night, Wes. Talk to you tomorrow maybe? Or would that not fit your plans, whatever those might be?

Faith x

She leaves the computer on, just in case. She changes quickly into her oh-so-sexy nighttime attire (more Old Navy than Agent Provacateur) and flops down onto her bed, grabbing the nearest book and secretly hoping it's so goddamn boring it puts her right to sleep. She's so not in the mood for deep thoughts of any kind.

The book happens to be dull as proverbial ditchwater. Sleep is starting to look mighty fine when she hears the telltale ping of an incoming message. Instantly wide awake, she flings the book aside.



Faith—

Did you tell Darla that this was all my fault? I do seem to recall exhorting you to be as loud as you pleased.

And I certainly recall enjoying it immensely.

I do rather feel that I owe you …an indulgence as you call it. Of what sort? And you'd best take me up on it now, as I'm not liable to be so amenable tomorrow.

I'm waiting.

And yeah, how wrong is it that she's instantly wet just from seeing the words "I'm waiting"? And she sure as fuck doesn't want to keep him waiting, but the question is: what does she want? Is this truth, or dare?

***

She knows five minutes of pacing around the tiny bit of floorspace in her room —with phone in hand, getting more and more riled up by the second— isn't the best use of her time, but nonetheless she's doing just that.

“Faith, honey...? What are you doing up there? Step aerobics?” Darla yells up the stairs.

“Nothing ma, just ... thinking...” she hollers back before belly-flopping on the bed again, tracing her finger over the dialpad of her phone.

So, if this conversation was gonna go where she thinks it's gonna go, she really needs to soundproof her room as much as possible before, like, she gets vocal again.

That is, if that's the kind of indulgence he has in mind.

She's about to dial when her computer pings again. He's written one line:


I'm still waiting, Faith.


She's amazed at her multitasking skills, 'cause she's like, popping a mix cd into her tiny stereo and dialing his number at the same time –with a quick stop to flip the flimsy lock on her door. It's not like that's gonna make much of a difference, but it makes her feel a little more removed from the reality that Darla's right below her, downstairs in the living room, probably watching the reruns of “Days of our Lives” on SoapNet or some schmaltzy movie on Lifetime.

It's strange not to have a plan for the call —no book to read him, no naughty fantasy to recite. She's sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed now, spine straight, counting the rings. Four, five... and she's starting to freak out that he's changed his mind and it's about to roll over to voice mail when he answers.

“Don't speak.” The words are low and nearly growly, and it's her turn to respond with nothing but a sharp intake of breath and a long patch of silence as she fights both the urge to say something and the urge to shove her hand down her pants and start taking care of her body's nagging call for attention, even if it's just from her own fingers.

“That's good. I was wondering if you'd comply...”

She opens her mouth to speak, but snaps it shut with a tiny harumph.

“I'll overlook that, since it wasn't actually a word.” She can hear pages flipping in the background, and he can't possibly be about to... “I'm going to read to you now, Faith.”

And she can't help it, just can't. It just sort of slips out, a whimper crossed with a moan that ends with his name.

“Of course, you're allowed to make as many of your lovely little noises as you like –that doesn't count as speaking.”

She's grateful for the music, of course, hoping it does the trick to drown out what's sure to be a command performance of the previous evening.

“I imagine that your mother's home now, though, so I don't think I need to remind you to take care not to disturb her.”

And he starts to read. She doesn't recognize the words, or the writing style, and she'd accuse him of making it up —as she had done— if she couldn't hear the rasp of the pages turning, or if his voice wasn't so smooth and even, caressing every word carefully as he picks each one off the page and presents them to her in strings of delicate, lush prose.

She doesn’t need to be prompted to slide her pajama bottoms to her ankles and peel her panties off too, shoving them just past her knees. She’s dripping wet, of course. Doesn't bother to pull her tank top off even, just shoves it up and roughly pinches and twists her left nipple before dropping her hand down, fingers immediately swirling and slipping against her clit.

And she's lost in it all: His even, soft breathing and the rhythm of his voice and of her fingers; of her pinkie, which she's somehow managed to get curling and teasing around the edges of her slick hole. The whimpers escalate into quiet, throaty moans until he abruptly stops at what seems to be the end of a chapter.

“Please...” she whispers, even though the words are forbidden. “Keep reading...”

“I'm afraid it's become impossible for me to continue turning the pages without attending to my needs as well...”

Those words nearly send her over the edge, but his words stop her.

“Wait for me, Faith. You can wait.” It seems like it's the first time in ages that he's done that, made what should have been a question into something else entirely – a perfectly aimed command.

She gives a whimper she hopes passes for an affirmative, shoving the burgeoning waves of her orgasm back down, shoving her hips into the mattress, dragging her fingers away from her pussy for a few moments before setting them back in motion as soon as his ragged breathing picks up the pace.

It's almost like they're together, just for those short few minutes, where the only words spoken are their mutual nonsensical babble of desire until she hears it, the familiar tightening in his voice. She's more than ready when he gives the word.

And she's secretly pleased that she comes almost instantly, like the old days, mewling into the phone and whispering his name as he gives that sweetly familiar little grunt that curls around her name as he comes as well.

“Good night, Faith,” he whispers after he's caught his breath, and hangs up before she can say good night in return.

Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty Seven

The early part of the week passes by in a blur of work, getting ready for the long Thanksgiving weekend when Monty's planning to shut down at lunchtime Wednesday, like he's got to get halfway across the country, not fifteen miles to his daughter's house. Wes doesn't call her again, but they're swapping emails and she's doing her best to keep them stress-free and non-pushy because he's got enough going on right now. She's being all supportive and such which is why her first reaction to what arrives in the mail on Wednesday is a hiss of outrage.

Darling Faith, he's written. If you've got plans, please don't feel you have to change them, but I noticed that the play I'm going to see on Saturday night with Rupert is also being performed at the Royal in the city near you. It occurred to me that it would be rather nice to compare notes on the two productions.

I've enclosed two tickets as I know from experience that it's dull to go to such events alone. Perhaps Xander would accompany you? Despite our differences, I do regret that your friendship with him has been adversely affected at times by your relationship with me; consider this an olive branch of sorts.

I – this is slightly awkward. Rupert invited me to the play and I agreed of course; he's a charming man and I enjoy his company. Then, once he'd got my firm acceptance, he revealed that we would actually be four, not two. At times he's rather sneaky, I have to say. He's concerned that I'm lonely and, having confirmed that I'm straight and single in the most direct way possible (he's alarmingly frank at times) he's made what I'd hoped was to be a pleasant evening into a double date.

I've met his friend; a delightful young woman called Olivia, who's over here on a flying visit. She's visited before and from the look in his eyes when she's mentioned, they're lovers, although he's never said as much. I'm to be partnered by a woman I've never met called Anne. She's heavily involved in charitable work of some kind, which interests me – as you know, I like to do pro bono work from time to time. Interested in what she does – not in her.

Faith – I'm unable to withdraw gracefully from this engagement, but there is no question of my embarking on even the most casual relationship with anyone at the moment.

The same need not hold true for you; if you meet someone, if you decide, as you have every right to do, that you no longer want me in your life I will understand.

But please don't think that I regret what's happened between us recently. You make me so happy, always, my darling Faith.


Wes x


She's torn between so many emotions after reading that, with the tickets for 'The Taming of the Shrew' clutched in her hand, that she gives up trying to untangle them and settles for shaking her head ruefully. Couldn't fall in love with someone simple, could you? she thinks. Have to go for a lawyer with a pretzel-shaped brain.



Wes

Glad I make you happy, not so glad you're not going to let me have the chance to do it properly any time soon.

Sometimes you've just got to take that chance, Wes.

Thanks for the tickets. Did this play in school, way back. Can't remember much but there was this one line stuck with me.

"Thou must be married to no man but me for I am he born to tame you."

That what you want, Wes? To tame me? Somehow I don't think so. But you have fun trying, don't you?

Don't freak about this, but I want you to tell me one of those dark dreams of yours, Wes. One of your fantasies you bring out to play in your head. Trust me enough to share it with me. Doesn't have to be practical, doesn't have to be something you want to, like, actually do to me, with me. I just want to know.

And because I can feel the chill from here as you freeze up in horror, I'll go first. Call it a thank you for the tickets.

This, yeah, we could do this. Wouldn't mark me, wouldn't hurt, and it'd be a one-off, not – God, I can just imagine you drawling at me to get on with it...

Want you to put me in a collar, Wes. One you'd picked out for me, the same way as you picked out my clothes, my purse, my brush, the books I read. You'd tell me about it first, I think. Wouldn't want to surprise me, because you'd lose the fun of watching me wait, never knowing if this was the day...

You'd measure my neck for it, because I don't think you'd take me with you when you got it. Wouldn't want anyone to see it and me, and get to thinking what it'd look like on me because you're the only one allowed to see that, right?

So you'd strip me and stand me in front of you and slip the tape around my neck and it'd feel cool and I'd shiver and God, you'd smile at that, wouldn't you? And fuck me right there where I stood because you couldn't wait a second – and, yeah, OK, this is my fantasy and I, like, get fucked fast, no waiting, if I want.

And one day you'd call me to you and this time you'd make me kneel and you'd open the box, and I can't decide if it'd be all plush like the box my watch came in – God, I never really made it up to you about that. Loved it so much. Love you. Anyway, like that, or maybe black leather, like my collar. Course you could make it pink, to match my shoes ;-) See that? It's a smiley. You got the hang of them yet, Wes?

And once you put it on, you'd whisper a number in my ear and that's how many hours I'd have to wear it, no matter what happened, so sometimes you'd be spanking me and you'd stop to undo it and it'd feel so different being spanked with it and without it, and I'd ask you not to take it off, but you'd tell me rules were rules in that firm voice and then, because you love me I think you'd work out a way to make us both happy. You're so fucking good at that, Wes, you really are. Maybe you'd use it to fasten my wrists together, or my ankles, maybe you'd slide it between my teeth to bite on while you made my ass sting and burn. Maybe you'd just let me hold it, put it where I could see it...

But sometimes - and I still work for you in my fantasies, all of them, and I wish – oh fuck, forget that. Not gonna happen, I know. But sometimes I'd have to sleep in the collar, go to work wearing it, and you'd have special clothes I could put on to hide it, high-necked shirts and stuff, but when we were alone, you'd undo the buttons and stare at it, just look, not touch, and I'd get so wet from that, Wes, so very wet...

God, I am now just thinking about it.

Miss you, Wes. And, yeah, not just for the sex but right now, right now I want to fuck you, be fucked by you, and that's it. Want you in me, real and sweaty and making those finger-shaped bruises on my arms because you lose it, just a little, when you come. I can't stand this much longer.

You'd better be hard now, Wes, better be missing me. Tell me you are. Tell me.

Faith
X


Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty Eight

While Darla's screaming at her to get a move on, she follows the instructions and sends an email to Xander.


Yo Xand

Hope you're still not mad at me. I love you – always will even if things are a bit weird between us. Wes sent me two tickets to Taming Of The Shrew at the Royal in the city (I guess it's like a Shakespeare version of Desperate Housewives) and he thought you might like to come with me. Would you? If, like, I promise to leave my gimp mask at home.

Hey, Xand. I'm joking, OK?

Let me know

Faith x


When she finally plunks down in front of the computer that evening after braving the crowds at the grocery store with Darla, picking up last minute things like frozen pie crusts and green beans and those icky fried onion things to put on top of a casserole, there's an email from Xander.


Faith --

Still love you too. I really, really do. Think you're insane and, like, one of those chicks who loves too much and stuff but I still think you're kinda cool. But Faith, Faith, Faith – Shakespeare? Are you on crack per chance? I've already got plans to see Alexander with a bunch of guys from work. Can't resist that whole Roman decadence thing, right? Plus, c'mon, Faithy -- Colin Farrell in a toga! So I'm forgiven? Great!

Hey, why don't you ask Holden? Bet he doesn't have any plans that night, and I'm sure he'd love to join you. Wink wink, nudge nudge. So, I already asked him and he said yes! You can thank me when you see me.

-X.


She's barely had time to type a not-entirely-joking reply to Xander (I'll get you for this Harris, you just see if I don't) when her email pings and about fucking time.


Faith.

I'm still at work. I believe the correct 'smiley' for that would be :-(

I'll email you when I get home.

Wes x

PS: Did you get anything interesting in the post today?



It's enough to make her scream in frustration. Maybe even have a proper to goodness hissy fit, which involves rolling on the floor and chewing at the carpet. She bares her soul to him. Shares this, like, completely intimate fantasy and all she gets is thirty words and change. Then she reads it again trying really hard not die from the cuteness that is Wes mastering smileys. He's becoming a total geek.

She doesn't have a clue how long it will take him to get home. Not like all she has to do is sit and wait for the ping on her computer like she has no life. Instead she emails Holden to tell him that she's looking forward to Saturday but making sure he understands that it's totally, like, a friends-only kind of deal. And after surfing a bunch of food websites for a classy pie recipe, she snuggles up tight with her collar fantasy. Not even touching herself, just trying to imagine what it will feel like round her neck, the cool touch of Wes' fingers at her neck as he buckles it on and then traces the edge of it and smiles, a little cruelly, when she gasps and…

Ping!

It's probably just Holden. But she hopes it's Wes and she takes her sweet time getting up from the bed, slowly walking to the kitchen to get a glass of water because he's taught her a thing or two about anticipation. Snagging a fresh packet of cigs from her purse, she sits down, and yeah, it's from Wes.


My sweet Faith, my darling Olympia.

Of course I miss you. And, yes, your little fantasy made me hard. I could see the collar, pink to match your shoes, of course. Perfect. I wouldn't need to take any measurements to get the dimensions just right and I certainly wouldn't fuck you fast and furiously. But then it's not my fantasy, though if you don't mind, I'd rather like to borrow it?

You seem awfully preoccupied with my 'dark dreams' as you call them. And in the spirit of quid pro quo which always worked for us so well, I'll show willing.

Where do I start? I have a million fevered fantasies with you, Faith, there in the centre of them.

Should I elaborate on the visions I've had of you with another girl? Of how I longed to ask you about your interlude with Drusilla but supplied the details myself. Of you twisting and writhing while she followed my instructions. But I wouldn't let her make you come, Faith. No one but me would be allowed to make you come. In all my fantasies, you come for me. Only for me.

Or there's the enchanting picture I have in my mind's eye of you tied to a chair by the side of my bed. It's rather an ugly piece of furniture, but I digress. You're being punished because you're always so willful, so disobedient. And this is the one occasion when I've had to gag you so a black silk scarf stops you spitting out obscenities. Instead you make do with angry tears spilling down your cheeks because I'm sitting opposite you on the bed while a woman brings me off with her mouth. I don’t think you like her very much but I chose her precisely because she's everything you're not. Cold and blonde and angular, so unlike my lush, dark, warm girl. And even though I can feel her tongue on me and she's very good, have no doubts about that, I can't snatch my eyes away from you. And when I come in her mouth it's because of you, your tears, the terrible look of envy on your face.

But my favorite fantasy, Faith? The one I come back to time and time again? Would you like to know what it is?

It's you. You're naked, which will come as no surprise because you know how much I loved to look at you. I can still conjure up a perfect replica of you, right down to that tiny line of freckles dancing across your left thigh – pointing the way to your pretty cunt.

And I can see them so clearly because I've tied you to my desk. Not bent over it, not this time but sprawled out, splayed out, spread out, bound at the wrists and ankles so you can't hide anything from me. Not the way your nipples pucker as I blindfold you or the way your cunt slicks up as I insert plugs into your ears. But I'm not going to gag you. Not this time, Faith. God, those noises you make. Those little whimpers. Those tiny sighs. Each delicious moan and groan. I can't deprive myself of them.

But you're forbidden to speak and you're not allowed to move but then I've tied you up so firmly that I don't believe that will be an issue. Then I leave you like that all day.

Of course, it would be unnecessarily cruel to neglect you, but you're in the dark, unable to see or hear or move and time elongates and expands so you can't tell whether five minutes or five hours has slipped past when I sneak in.

The first couple of times I'll just glide my hand up your leg, getting no further than your knee. Maybe pressing a kiss against it because you're being such a good girl. Too good, too tempting so next time I have to suck at your nipples until they're hard and waiting for the touch of my teeth. And one taste of you is never enough, Faith. I have to be strict though.

So, I leave you for an hour. When I come back, you've made such a beautiful mess. Juices pooling out of your cunt and I want nothing more than to bury my head between your thighs and stay there for days. Instead I remove one of the plugs so I can whisper in your ear? What do I say to you, Faith? Such wicked, filthy things. How beautiful you look all bound and helpless. How much I want to fuck you in your mouth and your cunt and your arse. And you want it too. You tell me repeatedly. You beg me to make you come. But it's not time. You haven't waited long enough.

The next time I come in you're crying. And you cry so beautifully, Faith, even with the blindfold hiding your spiky, wet lashes from me, the way your eyes become so impossibly large when they brim with tears. I have to make do with the way your bottom lip trembles so delightfully and I have to kiss it. A stronger man than me would have difficulty resisting.

And my resistance, my resolve, is weakening every time I enter the room and see the way your limbs quiver with the strain of being confined. How your skin is flushed so pink with arousal and I take pity on you, Faith, on my knees because you know so well how to make me kneel before you.

Your poor little clit is so swollen that you cry out when I trace my tongue along it but I can't linger too long because I need to taste you. I told you the other night of how delicious you are -- wild honey, sweet, so sweet and smoky on my tongue, when I fuck you with my mouth.

I can't let you come though. Not yet.

The last time I come in, you've fallen asleep. Worn out by your struggles and sobs. You come to and you give me a hazy smile as I untie you and I fall in love with you just a little bit more. But no matter how much I love you and I do, so very much, you have to be punished for making me wait.

You're unsteady on your feet so I bend you over the table and your arse… That pretty, pretty arse of yours, Faith. How soft it is as I stroke the palm of my hand across it. Pale and then pink as I hit you, feel the heat of the blow on my skin. You love it. Oh, you cry and you plead with me not to keep hitting you in the same place but I'm fascinated by the way the marks of my hand get more pronounced, the red indents of my fingers deepening and your skin is so hot now.

I think that maybe I've been too severe, too hard on my beautiful girl who's been so brave and so good. That she deserves a gentle, lazy fuck on my lap. But my beautiful, brave Faith looks at me over her shoulder, hair tousled and in her eyes, a wicked smile on her lips and she tells me to fuck her.

There isn't time to do more than press a kiss on the heated curve of your arse before I unzip and I slam my cock inside the tight welcome of your cunt. Always so wet for me, always wanting me as you do now. And I'm fucking you hard because you ask for it so nicely. So many things I want to do – to turn you round and kiss you, stroke your breasts, tell you how again and again that I love you. But there's time enough for that. And right now, there are more pressing matters.

I bite you hard on your neck because at times like this I want to consume you. I rub your clit with my hand and I tell you to come. I'm drowning in you: in the constant wet heat of your cunt, the feel of your skin pressed against mine, your pleasured cries echoing in my ears and I don't want to swim to safety. I want to crash on to the rocks and die in your arms.

You'd better be wet now, Faith, better be missing me. Tell me you are. Tell me.



When she moves her hand to the mouse so she can click on 'reply', she realizes that her skin is damp with tears. And she's getting to her feet only to throw herself on the bed and let the pillow muffle her sobs. How can she tell him that she misses him so much that she carries the ache of not being with him deep inside her heart? A constant, small pain, that's so familiar that it's almost comforting. So she lies on her stupid, little girls' bed and cries it out until she's calm enough to actually, like, be able to do stuff like construct sentences.



Dear Wes

Dear, stupid, stubborn, lovely, pretty, adorable, annoying, wouldn't-know-a-good-thing-if-it-bit-him-on-the-ass Wes

Of course, I fucking miss you! I'm wet and I want you so much and you're not here and it's killing me.

I love your dark dreams, Wes. Want to do all this stuff with you. Well, maybe not watch someone else give you a blow job because there wouldn't be strong enough ropes in the world to stop me scratching the bitch's eyes out. But the other things? God, yeah. I'm not scared. I'm not disgusted. I'm just so fucking turned on, so amazed by you that I can't bear it.

I've been reading all these books and yeah, I know a lot more about what we do now. Know all the names and rules but you know what? It's not what we are. Not what we do. Not really.

Don't need whips and chains. Don't need some whacked out traffic light code. Don't need props and costumes. Just you and all those wicked, wonderful games you come up with. And me who'll let you play them with her. 'Cept now if there's something you want to do that I'm not down with (like letting some skanky ho suck you off) then, believe me, you're gonna be the first to know.

Call me on Saturday after we've both done the play thing. I'm going with Holden (remember him?) Xander's trying to set us up but there's just one tiny problem – I love you, like you didn't already know that.

I know that you need time. I'm giving it to you. Well, I'm trying. But Wes, I'm begging you now, don't fuck this up because you're too chickenshit to be happy.

Faith xxx



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