A Time and Place
There is a time and a place for everything.
Truer words have never been spoken.
Need a spot of violence? Don't look for a fight in the woods if you're a vampire. Need a fag? Don't light up in a non-smoking policed area when the sun is shining high in the sky. Need chocolate? Don't take the Slayer's Fannie Farmer when she's PMSing. Ever. Need to get your end away and you're fancying a bit of sausage? Eh... well...
"Have I mentioned that it's right scary when you laugh, Peaches?"
Right. So. Maybe it wasn't the brightest idea I've had in awhile, but my choices are severely limited. I know one -- say it with me now class -- one bloke in Sunnydale that even faintly arouses the trouser lizard. Might know him: tall, dark, and brawny, with a mouth that never closes. Rotten grin. Has "abuse me" tattooed across his forehead. I know that one likes a bit of meat with his pie, but his leash-holder won't allow the blond puppy a humping. Too bad. I bet he howls.
Aaaannyway. Since I can't scratch my itch at home, I figured I'd take a ride to L.A. and offer the ol' grandsire a piece of my pert and perky arse. Granted, I'd rather be the one drilling the overgrown lug, but seriously: can you see him taking it up the arse from anyone? I mean, besides Buffy.
Ooh, snarky me. And ugh. I need to give my brain a good washing, and soon. I'm starting to think like the kiddies speak.
Los Angeles. City of Angels. City of Angel. Could he be any more of a ponce? Why couldn't he seek redemption in, I don't know, Chicago? The Windy City. Oh, wait, he'd muss his hair. Never mind, then.
Me. L.A. Angel. L.A.
This might be a good time to mention that I hate the bloody coiffed one. I do. I hate him. I hate him so much that... that... well, there isn't a good description for it. I hate him that much.
So why am I here then, propositioning Angel like he's a two-bit whore? Hmm. Tough question... if you're blind.
Satan below, have you seen the man? Built like a linebacker with an arse of steel. Huge bloody paws. Shoulders big enough to grab and hold on when you're riding him like a bronco. Mouth made for kissing.
And his cock. Oh sweet mother, his cock. It's just long enough, just wide enough, just everything enough, to fill all the nooks and crannies without feeling as if your guts are being rearranged. That cock was made for a lover's body, which Angel most definitely is. Was. Whatever. I don't rightly care about Angel's soul. No, wait, that's not true. I want him to keep it. He's a crazy mo-fo without his soul after living cheek-and-jowl with it for a century. But shagging the stuffings outta me isn't going to make or break that gypsy curse, so I'm none too worried.
Okay, I'm a little worried. Could he lose his soul from laughing too much?
I sigh. I fidget. I cross my arms and uncross them again as I wait for the damned pillock to stop braying like a donkey.
"Okay, okay, okay, okay," he wheezes, clutching his stomach and fixing me with this wrinkled-nose expression that makes it look like he need some prunes. "Let me see if I understand. You want to make love with me?"
The violins start playing, candles flare up, and Barry White's smooth tones fill the suite. Poufter.
"No, git, I want to fuck." Why did I bother? I should've just asked Anya if she was interested in a threesome. God knows, that girl likes it wild.
"Why didn't you just find a... a partner in Sunnydale?"
A partner. Witness my eyes rolling. "I don't want anyone in Sunnydale," lie, lie, lie, "I want you." Gag. Gargle. Rinse. Spit. Blech.
"I won't let you top me."
Of course not. Why be original? I like it extra crispy myself.
"I wasn't counting on it." I give him the head-cocked-eyebrow-lifted-puppy-eyes-I'm-chipped- nobody-loves-me-no-more look, with a dash of you-stole-Dru-and-balled-her-while-I-was-crippled- and-you-were-a-soulless-jackass pout. "If I say please, will you fuck me so I won't say it again?"
"Take off your clothes."
Heh. It scares people when I'm polite.
I strip, and this is the part where I see if he'll steal my clothes, lock me in the room, and laugh some more. If so, I'll just have myself a wank on his pansy red silk sheets before knotting them together and climbing off the balcony. Tosser only lives on the second floor of the hotel, and I've been naked in public before. Normally, though, when I get knackers-to-the-breeze,I'm as pissed as only an Englishman can. On the whole, I tend to keep my private parts for private showings. I'm prudish that way.
There is a time and a place for everything, though. I'm hard, I'm naked, I'm standing in front of Angel waiting for him to make the next move. He seems stuck. His mouth keeps opening and closing, and his eyes are doing this bugging thing. I guess it's my move, then.
"Cor, I know it's been awhile, sweetums, but you still know what to do with one of these, yeah?" I grab my pole and give it a little twirl. Poopsie's eyes spin in circles. Neat.
"I really... don't... didn't think..." How cute, he's flustered.
"Don't think." I walk right up to the Irish Stud, look him in the swirling eyes, and poke him in the thigh with my eleventh finger. "Just fuck me."
I see millions of tiny scenarios flash through those chocolate-drop irises of his before they settle on resigned mischief, as if he can't believe he's going to give me what I want. Sheyeah, like anyone can deny me anything. Shut up.
Once Darkwing Duck sheds his clothing, things progress rather rapidly. One finger, two finger, three fingers, dick. Thrust, thrust, orgasm. Gallons of cum filling my bowels. Some blood play, because we're vampires and we do that. Yeah, and what vampire slash fiction have you been reading?
First off, it took an effin' twenty minutes for me to get The Great Mousse Detective out of his kit. He had on layers. Duster, sweater, shirt, tee-shirt, shoes, belt, trousers, socks, boxers. He fretted and angsted with every item of clothing that came off. I had to placate him with kisses. It was such a grand production it made me almost wish he'd stolen my clothes, locked me in the room, and forced me to toss off. At least I'd be done by now. But then I wouldn't have gotten to see Angel naked. Let's pause for a moment and truly digest this.
I eventually drift back from my happy place and plant a big, wet smacker on the Winnie-the-Pooh belly he's sporting nowadays. He swats me away, but not before I caught a glimpse of his cock doing the naked hula dance.
Slurp. "Spieeeeek!" Heh.
I nibble and gnaw on Angel's corncob until he starts pulling out my hair. Hey! And ow! And quit it! I don't touch your precious locks, you don't yank on mine.
I vamp, and my sharpies prick his willy. He goes very still. "Spike," he says in a strangled tone, "this is your warning."
And then he comes.
And he comes and comes and comes and comes and comes. Damn, someone hasn't gotten any in awhile. Like me.
Most of his jizz ends up running down my chin and neck and dripping onto the floor. When he's finally done spewing his load, I spit the rest of his bitterness onto the Berber carpeting. I'm not about to swallow, and it'll dry.
Angel says something. It sounds like, "Abawah."
I take that as a good sign, rub my aching knees as I stand, and wander over towards his bedroom. Without a by-your-leave, I scrounge through his dressers until I find something I can use as lube. He's undoubtably a shower-bater, so there'd be nothing as handy as lotion laying about. There's Vaseline in the drawer with a few bladed weapons and rags, and I snag the plastic container. I toss it to him as he enters the bedroom, and re-shut the drawer. He looks at it like it's gonna bite him.
"What's this for?"
Oh, Angel, please don't tell me that just came out of your mouth.
The doof shakes his head once, hard, and he seems to return to earth. "Never mind. Dumb question."
"Damn straight." I crawl onto the bed, arrange the pillows to my liking, and lay down on my stomach, sexy arse in the air. I glance over at him and bat my lashes. "Come and get me, big boy," I say in my most falsetto purr.
He snorts, ambles over to the bed, and climbs aboard. I hear the suction and pop of the lid being removed from the Vaseline. I cushion my head on my forearms and sigh happily in anticipation. Finally, I'm going to get laid.
Whowhathuh? I look over my shoulder, and he gestures impatiently. "Turn over," he repeats.
Grandsire wants a bit of the old face-to-face, does he? I think that can be arranged.
I turn over, adjusting the pillows again so I'm comfortable. There's nothing worse than getting a cramp while you're having sex. Takes all the enjoyment out of it.
I finish what I'm doing, then look expectantly at him, my cock waving in the air like a palm tree in a hurricane. He gives me the cheekiest grin, grabs my rod with a slick hand, and shows me what a hundred years of only being able to masturbate has done for him. I moan in appreciation at his skill.
Then he stops, and I curse. He chuckles. Still unnerving, that.
"Don't move. I want to try something," he tells me. I don't move. Once a guinea pig, always a guinea pig.
He turns around, and that big ol' behind of his is in my sight for a long moment, long enough for me to see shiny stuff where there shouldn't be shiny stuff, and don't tell me he's going to, because that never happens in real life, and-
Sweetmotherofallthatisunholy! He's... and I'm... and it's...
"I thought you said...," I scramble for purchase on his hips, "...that you weren't going to let me top."
"You're not on top, are you?"
His large paws attach themselves to my thighs, and he begins to rock. I see the long line of his back, the bumps and dips of his spine, the dark stain of his tattoo, the funky stars dancing above his dark head. Then I see nothing, because my eyes have rolled back in their sockets.
I didn't expect this. I expected to be staked, or kicked around, or thrown out for proposing sex. I sort-of expected the laughter, maybe some humiliation tossed in for good measure. At the very least, I expected a simple no. At best, a yes and a pole up the hole. Nothing prepared me for this. I gave him a blow, and he gave me his arse.
I'm sure I made some interesting noises while Angel was rowing his boat to shore. I know my toes curled up and back, because I got a cramp in my calf afterwards. I'm pretty certain my guts turned inside out when I came. Not too sure the dancing pixies with the saucy grins were real when I was able to see again, but they flitted away soon enough so I wasn't concerned.
Angel was perched on the edge of the bed, watching me, when I came back from Planet Orgasmo. It took me several tries, but I managed to croak, "Why?"
He shrugged with one broad shoulder. "Something different."
He stood and hobbled to the bathroom. The door shut behind him. Guess that's my cue to get up, get dressed, and get out.
The Ponce of Darkness is wearing a soft silk robe when he eventually emerges. By then, I'm re-clothed and am just lacing my last boot. He leans against the doorjamb and watches me with heavy-lidded eyes.
I stand and tug on my duster collar. "Well, it's been fun, petunia, but I'd best be shoving off."
He nods slowly. I feel the tension creep into the air, and I want to get out of the hotel before the best fuck I've had in ages is ruined by our hatred for one another.
I saunter to the suite door, twist the knob, and curse softly when it slips beneath my sweaty palm. I surreptitiously wipe my hand on my jeans and try again. The knob turns easily this time.
I glance back at Angel. He smiles. I smile.
There is a time and a place for everything.
Even making love.
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