Pink-painted nails scratch and circle her nipple, teasing it hard,
pinching it harder. The tiny pain's good but not good enough to make
her do more than sigh out a shuddered breath.
It takes sharp teeth, scraping and biting down, to bring a whimper to
join the susurration of sheets on skin, and creak of bed, that are all
that break the heavy silence of the sweat-hot room.
After that there's not much point in staying silent and really she
needs to make noise, because fingers that feel cool on her skin and icy
on her cunt are splitting her open and spreading her wide, dabbling in
the wetness, spreading it around so her fingers are skating - no, not
her fingers, not hers -
She comes, but it's too late, she's spoiled it.
And as she cleans her fingers, one circled with dents her teeth made,
by licking them, and paints over the pink with scarlet she wonders if
it would've been any different if Buffy had been
the one touching her.
Somehow, she doesn't think so.
Still just a Slayer fucking herself.
15/1/05