Angel fell onto the bed as if he were a hawk diving from on high.
Spike
instinctively retreated the few inches the remaining chain allowed, pulling
vainly when the limit was reached but Angel, kneeling between his legs, grabbed
his hips and pulled him back. Once Angel's hands touched him, Spike stilled like
a rabbit fearful that the slightest motion might set the predator onto its
heels. Angel caressed his abdomen, up his pecs, across his shoulders, and out
his arms. Capturing his wrists, he slid them towards the headboard while pinning
the pale, thin body under his own heavier, well-muscled mass. Spike felt himself
respond to the constraining weight by trying to wriggle out from under it, but
Angel's position between his outspread legs made that impossible even if Angel
had not had the superior strength. Angel kissed him, not deeply but
passionately: a kiss designed to inflame ardor rather than quench it.
There was a part of Spike that resented this treatment, the part that
had kept him from admitting his need for so long. If he could have overpowered
Angel in that moment, his pride would have driven him to do so and run away, but
as it was, he could only struggle ineffectually despite knowing that, like
Angelus, it probably heightened Angel's need to possess him. Spike began to feel
as if Angel's every touch burned him like dry ice: so cold it felt hot, sizzling
as it froze. His resistance became frenzied, if no more effective, and
eventually Angel pulled far enough back to look down on his face, grinning
insufferably.
"Ye're a lively thing for bein' undead." He observed
merrily. "I suppose askin' ye to lay still would be fruitless." Spike gave him a
scathing glance but did not deign to answer.
"So be it." Angel replied
amicably. "Remember, Childe, you brought this on yourself."
Before Spike
could so much as frame a reply, Angel went into game face and sank his fangs
deep into Spike's neck, effortlessly reclaiming the exact spot he had left
scarred over a century ago. He pulled great draughts of blood from Spike's
veins, reveling in the richness and the emotional connection that accompanied
it. Spike moaned, low and helpless; occasionally managing to frame it in
something like the word "Sire" but mostly just making sounds of desperate,
fearful pleasure.
As Spike neared the point where he would lose the
fight and slide into the blackness, he became frantic; he knew rationally that
Angel would not drain him to dust, but the fear of slipping into the dark never
to reawaken overwhelmed any sense of false pride that remained. He began to beg.
"Please, Sire. Please, stop. I'll obey. Don't drain me. I'll do anything, just
please . . . gift me with your blood. Sire? I beg you." Silence fell.
Angel withdrew licking his lips, sated in a way he had not been for
almost a century. He noted that Spike had slipped into that otherworld where he
was not quite unconscious but no longer able to speak. His eyes were vague and
unfocussed but pled his case nonetheless. Angel opened his wrist and let the
blood drip into Spike's parted lips. At first only Spike's throat worked, then
as the elixir of his Sire's blood began to take hold, his tongue joined in to
capture the drops that spattered outside his mouth. Angel continued to hold the
source of Spike's revivification a few inches above his straining mouth, and
eventually, his head rose far enough to fasten eagerly on Angel's wrist. Angel
waited until the suction from each gulp was stronger then pulled his arm
abruptly away.
Spike was now in a frenzy of desire for the life-giving
properties of Angel's blood, but at the same time, he was infinitely too weak to
even begin to try and take it. Just as he had known Angel would not drain him to
dust, he knew that should the occasion arise, Angel would protect him in this
weakened state, but once again reason had no effect on his survival instincts.
Spike was prepared to do anything to be deemed worthy to receive more of his
Sire's blood, and this was exactly where Angel wanted him to be: needy,
weakened, and shameless . . . a portrait of vampiric desire.
Spike
collapsed back onto the bed, weakened beyond resisting, knowing that Angel held
all the power now and in fact always had. He met Angel's eyes evenly, letting
his knowledge of his position freely show in his own eyes. Angel smiled down on
him like some Old Testament god debating between wrath and largess, enjoying the
very real submission of this wildest of his Childer beneath him. Spike was
helpless beyond the point of denial and knew it. It was in every flicker of
emotion that crossed his handsome face, every nervous lick of the lips, every
tiny, sinuous movement meant to emphasis his desirability. Angel knew he wasn't
going to hurt Spike . . . at least not much, but Spike, he realized, was in a
world of uncertainty.
Spike knew what to expect of Angelus, but Angel,
in most ways, was a blank slate as far as he was concerned. That epiphany made
Angel smile all the more wickedly because unlike Spike, he still knew exactly
which buttons this situation pushed in his childe's scarred psyche. A weakened,
fearful and dependent Spike was an incredibly malleable, infinitely turned-on
Spike; Angel was a cruelly happy vampire.
Spike looked up at Angel's
face, seeing more of Angelus in his smile than he was accustomed to seeing; it
made him nervous yet heightened his anticipation of whatever was to come. He
watched Angel's face change, with a mixture of lust and trepidation. Usually,
the ensouled vampire only took on his demonic aspect when he was angry, but
Spike saw no anger in the golden amber of his Sire's true eyes this time. Angel
manifestly sliced his tongue on a fang; Spike's mouth parted, and a small gasp
of need escaped his lips in reaction. Angel sealed a kiss between them gently,
and taking his cue from that pressure, Spike delicately sucked the coveted blood
from Angel's tongue as it marked its territory in his mouth. Spike shuddered
with the difficulty of controlling himself. There was nothing he wanted more
than to seize Angel's head, sink his teeth into that bleeding invader, and claim
back all the blood that had been taken from him.
There was also no other
action that could cause him as much pain as succumbing to that impulse would
give him. To his horror, Spike found that he was whining deep in his throat like
a dog submitting to the alpha male: a pleading, abject sort of sound that arose
from the struggle between his natural instincts as a predator and his survival
instincts as the childe of a volatile and dangerous vampire. Suddenly, Angel
shifted position so that their cocks, trapped between their bodies, rubbed up
against one another. Spike's hips thrust back in response and the whine morphed
into an appreciative moan that caused the seal of their kiss to be broken. Angel
slid downwards: kissing and nipping along Spike's jaw and neck, licking his
collarbone possessively, and heading erratically towards his already responding
nipples. Spike's chest heaved uncontrollably, as if his lungs demanded a breath
and moaned, "Angel," in a provocative manner.
Angel paused to savor the
moment then alternated licking and biting a nipple, becoming gradually rougher
until the skin was finally pierced enough to lick away the beads of blood that
welled slowly to the surface. Spike was vocally appreciative of the increasingly
rough play and stilled expectantly as Angel lapped across his breastbone to the
other nipple. There was a lick and a breath that caused it to harden and
contract, then a pause. Spike had a moment to anticipate a repeat of the gradual
stimulation before Angel sank both fangs into Spike's pectoral muscle and
harshly pulled a mouthful of blood from the wound.
Spike cried out in
shocked agony, and before his mouth could close, Angel covered it once again.
This time, feeding Spike his own blood, held in his Sire's mouth. Angelus had
fed Spike mouth-to-mouth many times but always before with prey's blood. It
surprised him how different his own tasted, compared to when it was filtered
back through his Sire's bloodstream. Still, it was strong blood, and the
intimacy of the act, combined with the surprise of the pain, had him rubbing and
thrusting against his Sire's body as if his desire had remained unsated for ages
rather than less than a day.
Angel closed a hand around Spike's throat
and slowly squeezed. Once the action penetrated his consciousness, Spike, with
some difficulty, stilled and warily turned his attention to Angel. The pressure
relented once the movement stopped, and Angel's hand traced down the length of
Spike's pale torso, coming to rest on his hip. Angel's index finger made small
circling motions over the sensitive skin as he spoke.
"You are even more
beautiful than when I made you, William. It pleases me what you have done with
your body."
Spike swallowed to mask his nervousness. "Thank you, Sire,"
he responded tentatively.
"You're welcome, Childe. As a reward I am
going to let you respond for the moment --not control, not initiate-- only
respond. Do you understand?"
The relief flooded both Spike's body and
his voice. "Yes, Sire. Thank you, Sire." He had quickly gotten used to the new
equality of their sex life, and consequently, this return to the old rules was
proving more difficult than he would have guessed.
Taking advantage of
his permission, Spike let his hands come up to touch Angel's skin, sighing with
evident satisfaction at the tactile pleasure. Angel ruffled Spike's hair
fondly, "Hedonist." He accused. Spike smiled cockily, "I am as my sire made
me," he remarked.
"That ye be, Lad. That ye be." Angel acknowledged.
Angel kissed him, and Spike kissed back; their arms entwined around each
other, their bodies seeking to meld into the closest joining possible. Angel
rolled onto his side; bringing Spike with him, and Spike marveled at how strong
Angel felt as he effortlessly rearranged their bodies to suit his fancy. Angel
reached between them and grasped Spike's eager shaft, stroking lightly. Spike
arched into a bow of sensation at the mere touch. Laughing delightedly, Angel
worked his childe nearer and nearer to release then stopped.
Spike, lost
in the growing arc of pleasure, began supplying the movements to continue the
stimulation once Angel became motionless. His hands, used to the weaknesses of
other partners, dug into Angel's body trying to restart the desired caresses.
Angel laughed with self-satisfied, humorless mirth.
"I thought you
understood, Boy." He censured nastily.
Spike immediately released his
grip on his Sire and once again became motionless. "Forgive me, Sire. Got
carried away, dinn' I? You feel so bloody good."
A little true humor
crept back into Angel's laugh; that was the allure of this maddening childe, he
touched the heart unerringly and with no strain.
"I think we cannot
trust you to restrain yourself, Childe. So I will do it for you, yes?"
Heaving a sigh that was part pretense of annoyance and part relief at
being understood, Spike gracefully placed his arms over his head. Angel locked a
manacle onto one wrist then teased at the pulse point on the other waiting for
the inevitable reaction. As the wrist, almost of its own volition, began
creeping away from his fingers, Angel seized it; allowing Spike to struggle
futilely against the steely confines of his fingers before slowly dragging the
arm into place, he locked the other manacle down. It never failed that Spike, no
matter how consensual the binding, resisted at that point. Neither did he ever
fail to pull frantically at the bonds once Angel contained him. He inevitably
started panting as if succumbing to a panic attack, and his eyes dilated though
whether from fear, desire, or both, Angel had never been able to decide.
Angel once again placed his hand in the middle of Spike's chest.
"Mine," he intoned.
Spike's breathing slowed, becoming
shallow except for the occasional deep hitch. Everything up to this point had
been a kind of familiar foreplay for them; now the real game would begin, and
Spike would suffer for as long as Angel could make him: until he begged for
release and beyond that point, but where Angelus would make him cum in spite of,
or because of, the very real pain mixed with a little pleasure; Angel intended
to hold Spike on the edge of pleasure for so long it became a kind of pain. A
subtle distinction, but a worthwhile one from Angel's point of view, and the
beauty of it was that one simple fact had not yet dawned on Spike. He had enough
blood in his body to survive; he even had enough to maintain a passable
erection, but what he did not have was enough blood in his body to allow him to
cum. In fact, if he got hard enough, he might just pass out. As long as
Angel refused to feed him, he could keep Spike writhing in a torment of pleasure
for what amounted to, practically speaking, forever.
Spike, however, was
still blissfully unaware of this predicament. Now that Angel had removed the
onus to control his reactions, Spike could surrender to the sensations
unreservedly. He couldn't remember the last time he had been freed to just
react, heedless of his circumstance. Relaxing into his bonds, he gave over all
control to Angel; eagerly anticipating the places that his Sire might choose to
take him.
Angel traced down Spike's chest with his tongue, pausing
occasionally to prick between ribs with his fangs. It made Spike squirm against
him interestingly. As he neared Spike's groin, he let his fingers tease down the
sides of the ribcage, knowing that his childe was ticklish there and that it
would distract him somewhat from the anticipation of Angel's mouth on his more
than ready cock. Sure enough, Spike tried to shy away from the tickling fingers,
but there was no place for him to go. He valiantly attempted to ignore it,
hoping that Angel would move on to other torments, but instead the tickling
increased. Knowing that this was another level of surrender that would
eventually be wrested from him, Spike gave in.
"Please, Sire," he
pleaded, "Please stop." The moment he spoke, it was as if a switch had been
thrown, and he began to laugh helplessly. "Oh bloody hell. Stop, Angel. I'm
begging you, Luv. No fair."
Angel smiled facetiously. "Am I supposed to
be fair, Spike? I don't recall that in the lore. The Sire is supposed to be fair
to the Childe? . . . No, I'm pretty sure I didn't miss that."
By now
Spike was gasping as the urge to laugh overtook any ability he had to refrain
from breathing. "What. . . ." He managed to get out. "Anythin', please."
Angel took pity on his childe because he could and simultaneously
stopped tickling him and sucked his cock deep into his mouth.
Spike's
sigh of relief instantly became an inhalation of purest pleasure. He could feel
the back of Angel's throat gripping the head of his cock, as his Sire
purposefully swallowed him down to the root of his shaft. A part of his mind
savored the feeling of Angel nuzzling into his short-and-curlies; just as Angel
savored the scent and feel of the springy thatch. He began a steady rhythm
intended to bring Spike to a rapid and violent peak, which surprised Spike, but
he happily prepared to hang on for the precipitous ride. Spike began to cry out
formless sounds of anticipation as he came close to the moment of release, but
when the wave of orgasm started to break, his world grew painfully out of focus
and consciousness slipped away.
Angel looked down at Spike with a
satisfied smirk on his face. As he had planned, the dearth of blood in Spike's
body left him unconscious rather than sated. He ran his hands covetously over
the pale body while awaiting the return of awareness. Deciding that his childe
was a little too drained to fully appreciate his situation, Angel, as soon as
Spike stirred, once again opened his wrist and let Spike draw a few more
mouthfuls of rich blood.
This time when Angel pulled his wrist away,
Spike did not even try to follow. He had come to full consciousness with the
horrifying realization that despite what seemed to be an orgasm massive enough
to make him pass out, he was still hard: painfully hard, in fact. Each thick,
coppery swallow made his erection more urgent while driving home the utter
dependence that his Sire had forced upon him. He feared that fighting for more
than he was given might result in having it all taken away again. That was
enough to spur him into obedience, at least for the moment.
Angel
viciously twisted one of Spike's nipples whilst he arched into the pain with a
silent cry. Scraping his nails down Spike's chest, Angel left faint lines
against his alabaster skin. He teasingly stroked the twitching, straining cock,
savoring the vocal but non-verbal reactions, as well as the physical ones. He
dug a bottle of lubrication out of the nightstand and, slicking a finger, slowly
inserted it into Spike's opening. Spike's pelvis began to thrust in a slow,
almost mechanical movement, and a low rasp vibrated in his chest. Not a purr nor
a growl but a sound somewhere in between the two: steeped in longing and bestial
need. He pulled out long enough to add more lube and introduced two fingers into
the tight, rhythmically-gripping channel. His other hand drifted from teasing
the shaft to rolling the balls in their velvety sac as if he were warming dice
for good luck. Angel curved the internal fingers, felt for the spongy spot of
tissue that indicated Spike's prostate, and hummed in appreciation at the full
body convulsion that confirmed that his fingers found the target.
"Angel." Spike said, in a soft, protracted murmur.
Angel's eyes
closed involuntarily at the heated submission conveyed in that one word. His
face took on a look of absorbed pleasure as he massaged the spot in a random
manner: slow then fast, light then heavy, consistent then erratic. The chains
holding three of Spike's four limbs added a percussive counterpoint to Spike's
vocalizations as they started to jerk and twitch uncontrollably under the
maddeningly chaotic assault. Each time he thought he was approaching relief,
Angel would change the stimuli until finally, all pride lost under a tsunami of
need, Spike began cadging.
"Do me, luv. I've learned the lesson, Angel."
Angel laughed softly. "What did you call me, Childe?" He asked
pointedly.
"Sire. Please, Sire. I'm gonna dislocate something here.
Please, let me cum."
"Are you sure that's what you want?" Angel asked
with fake concern.
"Are you mad? I'm sure. Fuck me; Touch me; Suck me,
but please, Sire, make me cum."
Angel's eyes flickered momentarily
between brown and golden; he licked his lips and concentrated on exciting his
already panting childe. As Spike felt the long climb begin, like the first hill
on a roller coaster, the anticipation of rounding the top and plummeting down
into sensation focused his entire being, and a torrent of babble emerged from
his mouth.
"Yes. Oh, yea. Sire, please. Don't stop. That's it." On and
on the words flowed forth until his throat and every other muscle in his body
became rigid with paroxysms of bliss. The bliss was short-lived, however, when
the pleasure of orgasm contrasted with the pain in his bollocks. He felt as if
he were ripping muscles in the throes of orgasm. He had enough blood to remain
awake as the pleasure suffused his body but not to actually ejaculate. It was
like the worst case of blue balls he ever remembered, multiplied and exacerbated
by the contrasting pleasure. His stream of words mostly remained the same, but
the tenor of them changed.
"Please, Sire. Don't. Angel, have mercy.
Stop. Please."
Angel leaned forward and brutally took Spike's mouth in a
gesture that was more conquest than kiss. He slid into game face and carelessly
let his fangs slice lips and tongues. The mixture of their blood in the crucible
of their kiss took the edge off the pain of too much pleasure, and slowly, Angel
let his fingers become motionless though he left them fully seated in his now
sobbing childe. Spike shuddered and nuzzled into Angel's touch wherever
possible. He had never cum so intensely in all his unlife, yet he was still
achingly hard.
Angel sat up, pleased by the whimper of protest that
forced its way past Spike's abused lips, and indulged in the sight of his
debauched childe. Occasionally fluttering his fingers just to see the ripple
effect work its way from Spike's core out to his extremities, he felt a
blanketing sense of completeness from indulging in these most possessive of
feelings. Spike eventually resolved into some semblance of his normal state of
mind and acknowledged Angel's patient observation with a heartfelt declamation.
"Sire."
Angel chuckled that so much could be summed up in
that one word. He stroked Spike's cheek, allowing him to nestle into the touch
as his thumb caressed the ridge of the cheekbone.
"Is that all I am,
Lad?" He asked pseudo-seriously.
Spike looked puzzled by the question,
sorting through the Angelus-relevant answers and assuming that Angel expected a
reply; he clearly felt at somewhat of a loss, then he remembered his earlier
remark. Pleased with his reasoning, he answered in a subdued but strong voice,
whilst looking Angel straight in the eye.
"You are my Sire, my Lord and
Master. . . ." his voice broke as he added, "you are my dark."
Angel
bent down and placed a kiss on his forehead that held more blessing than
passion, a benison of approval that set the last trace of anxiousness from
Spike's expressive face. The relief at Angel's approval loosened Spike's tongue.
"You're a hell of a good shag, too, Luv." He said saucily.
Angel
slapped his cheek good-naturedly. "You never learn when to leave well enough
alone, do you Boy?" He observed genially. Spike flashed him a grin that
reminded him viscerally of a portion of his anatomy which had also not yet been
relieved. He pulled his fingers out of Spike swiftly and without warning, just
to hear the outraged cry of abandonment it engendered. Moving between Spike's
legs, he uncuffed his leg, removed the chain, and then locked the manacle back
around the ankle for the visual effect. Spike's leg trembled throughout the
process, but he mounted no resistance.
Spike tried to ignore the
trembling that his Sire's every touch gave rise to, but as Angel continued to
lay proprietary hands on his legs, it was difficult if not impossible. He
watched with some trepidation as Angel positioned himself on his knees as close
as possible: groin-to-groin. He moaned as Angel's hands gathered up both their
cocks, holding them together but laxly. Spike loved those hands; whether they
belonged to Angel or Angelus, whether the acts they preformed were cruel, kind
or an electrifying mixture of the two, he could not get enough of the look or
feel of them. Broad palms, but long too, which, taken with the equally long
fingers, gave an elegant impression; an air almost of long-boned fragility
offset by their size and the square-tipped fingers with their close trimmed,
well kempt nails. More than one had looked at Angelus' unmarred hands and
assumed him to be a well-born layabout, only to be given a practical
demonstration of their true mettle as the life's blood was drained from them.
Now however, those hands were moving sulkily over their parallel shafts,
not quite teasing but not seriously building sensation yet either. While he
wanted to feel the ecstasy Angel's touch provided, Spike felt that if he hovered
without release much longer he would die from the throbbing ache that emanated
from his painfully sensitive tackle. Swallowing his tattered pride, he spoke
quietly and persuasively.
"Sire?" At Angel's nod of permission, he
continued. "What can I do to please you? Let me drink, Angel. Beyond cruel, this
is. Please. Sire?" Spike's begging wound down, and he let the full brunt of his
emotions show on his face and shine from his eyes.
Angel tightened his
grip just to watch Spike's back arch in a spasm of painful pleasure. He felt so
centered and content. The fact that he was raging to fuck this body was
completely balanced by the knowledge that he could (and would) do so whenever it
pleased him. Spike's muted, respectful begging told him that.
"What can
you do?" He echoed. "There's only one thing you can do, Spike: you can take it.
Take whatever I give you . . . and if you do it well enough then I will let you
drink from my very veins. Do you remember what that feels like? You'll know in
that moment that, heaven or hell, this is where you belong . . . and I am whom
you belong to."
Spike was gripped with the feeling that he was falling
inexplicably up, up into the endless mahogany wells of Angel's eyes, but rather
than jerk back at the sensation of vertigo, he surrendered to it and was
rewarded by a look of triumph that lit Angel from within with the warmth and
brilliance of a bonfire on a starless night. He was distantly aware of a soft
keening which rose and fell in relation to the touches of the hands preparing
him for this final gauntlet but never quite took in that the sounds were coming
from him. That gauze-wrapped perspective was ripped away when, in a single,
excruciating thrust, he was transfixed on Angel's cock.
The cry of agony
that rent the air definitely came from his own mouth; Spike had no doubts about
that any longer. The pain of the abrupt entry and the accompanying jolt of
delight made dissembling over his reactions utterly impossible. He was
pathetically grateful for the pause afterwards that allowed him to gain nominal
control over his frenzied panting.
Angel held Spike's hips in a viselike
grip and waited for the muscles surrounding him to relax. Spike's cock was
weeping copiously, and it made Angel dry-mouthed with the desire to lap it up.
Reflecting that it was possible in their current position but hardly
comfortable, he opted to scrape some pre-cum off Spike's belly and suck it
sensually from his finger, licking his lips in gratification at the taste. The
gesture seemed to ground Spike, allowing him to unlock muscles and still both
his breathing and his mind. He caught Angel's eyes and, licking his own lips in
parody, whispered, "Yours."
Angel momentarily pressed his palm against
Spike's breastbone, then he pinned Spike's hips again, and took another savage
stroke, agreeing, "Mine."
Spike was taken with a rolling shudder
that started in the back of his head and worked its way down his spine with bone
cracking intensity. As if it were a signal that he had been waiting for, Angel
began smoothly moving in and out: slowly at first but rapidly gaining momentum
as his own need for release overtook him. He came in a thunderous climax whilst
watching the ecstatic pain wash across Spike's twisted features.
Spike,
beyond words, pressed fevered kisses to Angel's skin after he collapsed on top
of him. His arms pulled weakly at their restraints in a futile effort to touch
more of his Sire. After a few moments, Angel returned his kisses with a spate of
butterfly-soft attacks on his neck. The keening returned but so softly that even
a vampire would not have heard it from mere feet away. It was as if Spike
couldn't control the sound but was forlornly attempting not to disturb Angel
with its presence. Angel put a stop to it by vehemently kissing the parted lips.
Spike's mouth melted in complete acquiescence: he gave when pushed, followed
when led, opened when probed, and entwined when tasted. The arrant, fervid
response, uncluttered by any ambition or art, inflamed Angel to such an extent
that he grew hard again before he had a chance to slip out.
Spike moaned
into Angel's kiss as he felt the shaft grow within him, lancing him with
pleasure. Knowing that the exquisite mélange of pleasure and pain was set to
begin again, he felt the last remnant of his struggle crack and fade like an old
photograph; he remembered it, could even figure out the gross shape of the
thing, but it had no real meaning to him any more; it had become abstract. He
heard the ending chords of a song and Keith Richards' raspy, laconic, mocking
voice laughing inside his head; "If you struggle, it only tightens up." For
Spike, the struggle had ceased.
Still enraptured with their kiss, Angel
began to stroke into Spike again, and tears, silent and crystalline, slid from
Spike's blue eyes like rain, washing away the dirt of his and his Sire's
troubled past. Angel's movements were measured and stretched on for some time
before the tempo increased. He finally broke their kiss to reverentially lick
some of the tear tracks from Spike's face like a god deigning to personally
accept a sacrifice. He adjusted his thrusts to concentrate on Spike's prostate,
causing him to inhale sharply with each push. As Spike's eyes rolled back in his
head, Angel nuzzled into Spike's neck and whispered, "Drink, childe. Take from
me all life: the power, the pleasure, the pain --it all comes from me."
The lethargy that held Spike shed from him in the blink of an eye as he
let his fangs drop and sank them into his Sire's proffered neck. He sucked
deeply, unconsciously matching the rhythm of Angel's thrusts. The renewed level
of blood quickly gave him the energy to meet those thrusts, and soon the two
vampires were pounding into one another unreservedly. Angel bit into the scar
left by Spike's making but merely tasted rather than drained. This time when
Angel reached his climax, Spike also came in shuddering, long-overdue surges.
The pain, the pleasure and the blood intertwined in a white-hot
tempering that re-forged the chains between Sire and Childe stronger than ever
before.
While the orgasm still possessed them, Angel began feeding
gently from Spike, and when the aftermath of that crescendo eased over Spike, he
once again, in this diminished way, mimicked Angel's rhythm. In a blood soaked
version of the Ouroboros, they fed off and through each other until the
post-coital lassitude over took them, and they drifted into sleep.
