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![[info]](/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Fulfilling a Fantasy
by
Savoy Truffle
Part One
The magic shop is dark and more than a little creepy. Nothing at all like the Magic Box. But then this shop caters to a much shadier clientele. Which makes him shady, Xander supposes. He can’t deny that what he is about to ask for is something no respectable magic vendor would provide. That’s why he didn’t go to a respectable magic vendor.
He finds it oddly comforting to see that the shop owner is not human. Moral flexibility of the sort he needs is less disturbing in a demon. The shop owner chuckles low in his throat when Xander makes his request.
“You naughty, naughty boy,” he says even as he begins to gather ingredients from around the shop.
“It’s not like you think…” Xander begins, but the knowing look on the shop owner’s face tells him to save his breath. When he has what he needs, he forks over a significant handful of cash and heads back to his apartment.
~*~*~*~*~
For some reason, spells make Xander nervous. Though with his history, it’s hard to imagine why. Expensive, supposedly foolproof, do-it-yourself spells are no exception. Still, he’s come this far so he can hardly stop now. Looking over at Spike’s sleeping form, he lays everything out as instructed and starts reading. When he finishes, there are no visible signs of success. No puff of smoke, no flashing white light. Guess there’s only one way to find out…
“Spike? Wake up, Spike.”
Spike stirs, opens his eyes and bolts upright in the bed.
“Harris? What’s going on? What in bloody hell am I doing in your bed?”
So far, so good… Spike makes a move as if to get up.
“Don’t move, Spike.”
And the look on Spike’s face is priceless. Xander can see Spike’s confusion as he remains utterly still. Success.
~*~*~*~*~
Spike is confused. He doesn’t understand what he was doing asleep in the bed of Xander-bloody-Harris. He doesn’t understand why Harris is smiling at him like that. And he doesn’t understand how he can be telling his limbs to lift him up and carry him out of this bed and yet not be moving an inch.
“What the fuck, Harris? Why can’t I move?”
And there’s that smile again. It’s damned unnerving.
“Beg me to tell you what’s going on, Spike.”
Not bloody likely, Spike thinks. But he can hear words coming out of his mouth.
“Please, Harris. Please tell me what’s going on. I’m begging you.”
Rage courses through Spike but his body remains utterly still.
“What the hell? I didn’t want to just say that. Harris!”
The boy just looks down at him, utterly calm. Spike goes from unnerved to terrified.
“Call me Xander,” the boy says.
“Xander,” Spike says.
“Picked up a spell today, Spike. Wanna know what it does?”
Spike doesn’t answer.
“Answer, Spike.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Answer truthfully.”
“Yes, I do.”
“It makes you obey every word I say.”
“Wh—what?”
“I control you. But the lovely thing is, you’re not brainwashed. You get to be fully conscious of—and hopefully very angry about—the fact that you are now my slave.”
“Your slave? Have you gone completely round the bend, Ha—Xander?”
“See there? Couldn’t do it. I told you to call me Xander and now you have to.”
“Maybe I just wanted to call you Xander.”
“Right. Like you just want to be lying completely still on that bed. Like you just want to stand up and strip for me.”
“You’re not seri—”
“Stand up and strip for me, Spike.”
And Spike still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that all of a sudden he can move, has to move. Has to stand and pull off his duster. Has to drop the duster to the floor and slide his arms out of his red overshirt. Has to grasp the bottom of his black t-shirt and pull it over his head. Has to reach down to untie his Docs and pull them off his feet followed by his socks. Has to unfasten the button of his jeans…
“You can stop there,” Xander says and Spike feels immense relief. At least the boy’s not going to…
“Don’t look so relieved. I did mean slave in every possible dirty sense of the word that I know you can imagine. And we’ll get there. But right now I kinda like you like this. Why don’t you do a little turn for me, Spike? Nice and slow. Let me see what’s mine now.”
Spike finds himself turning slowly.
“Don’t be an idiot, Xander. Let me go. If you don’t let me go now, I will get free eventually and then I’ll make you pay for this. Chip or no chip, I will kill you.”
“Sorry, Spike, too busy ogling that sweet ass—my ass, the one you’re showing off to me—to feel threatened.”
Spike, still turning, tries another tact.
“I don’t get it. What do you care about my ass? I thought you liked girls.”
“You can stop turning now. And I do. But not as much as I like slave boys, apparently.” Spike watches as Xander rubs a significant erection through his jeans. “See how much I like slave boys. Should I make you answer to that? Slave boy? Or maybe just boy? Or maybe slut? Or whore? Or just mine? It’s so hard to decide. Tell you what, Spike. I’ll let you decide. Choose one.”
And Spike wants to refuse to choose his own humiliation, but he’s already answering, “Slut.”
And Xander’s smiling again and Spike wants to slap that smile off of his face and he probably can if he does it before Xander orders him not to, but that will set the chip off and then there will undoubtedly be other consequences.
“Interesting,” Xander says. “I wonder why you chose that one. But then, I don’t have to wonder. Tell me, Slut.”
“I chose it because it’s the only one that doesn’t explicitly connote ownership or domination.”
“Interesting reasoning. Of course, the thing about sluts is: they want it. Do you want this Spike? Is this making you hard? I bet it is. I bet you can’t help yourself.”
To Spike’s horror, he can actually feel himself getting hard.
“You made that happen,” he accuses.
Xander shakes his head. “I didn’t order anything. I was just asking a question. Now answer it, Slut. Is this making you hard?”
“No.”
“Answer truthfully.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I think you’ve chosen the right name. Which reminds me: Let me go ahead and get some rules implanted in that oh-so-suggestible head of yours. First, to review, you answer to Slut or Spike. And you answer with ‘Yes, Xander’—or occasionally, ‘No, Xander.’ Second, you do not leave this apartment unless I have ordered you to accompany me somewhere. If I order you to accompany me, you will walk by my side when we are outside and stay in the same room as me when we’re inside, unless I tell you specifically otherwise. Third, you do not tell anyone anything about this spell or our current situation. Nothing. You will lie if necessary and you will do so convincingly. Fourth, you can speak your mind here for all the good it’ll do you, but you will treat me with total respect in the presence of anyone else…. I think that’s it for now. I’d make you repeat the rules, but there’s no need—you wouldn’t be able to disobey if you tried.”
“Please, Xander. Whatever I’ve done—everything I’ve ever done—to make you angry enough to do this, I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I’ll make it up to you however you want. Just end this, please.”
Spike hates how desperate he sounds, but hopes maybe he can reach the inner white knight. Xander just laughs.
“But I think you’re already making it up to me just the way I want, Slut. Now go fix me lunch.”
Part Two
“Yes, Xander,” Spike hears himself answer as his legs propel him into the kitchen.
“And, hey, if you make something gross, I’m just gonna make you make it again,” Xander calls after him.
But he needn’t have bothered. Spike has already recognized that he’s going to have to choose his battles very carefully from now on and lunch isn’t going to be one of them.
Making lunch is a very strange experience. Besides the obvious humiliation of domestic servitude, it’s just an odd mixture of force and free will. Xander hasn’t told him what to make or how to make it, so Spike controls any number of decisions as he works. And yet, all along there is this force in his mind compelling him not to stop, to keep moving, to keep deciding, to reach the vague but vital goal of lunch. Spike toys a bit with that force at first, trying not to decide between chicken noodle and tomato soup to go with the grilled cheese sandwiches. But he finds that his mind clicks along in spite of itself complete with justifications about how there are more cans of tomato in the cupboard and therefore it’s probably been longer since Xander’s had it, which means it would probably represent a nice change.
When Spike stops trying to disrupt the process, he finds that he can easily carry on whole other thought processes while the lunch-focused part of his brain is on autopilot. Ought to try that later, he thinks, when the boy is having his way with me. Close my eyes and think of bloody England. But for now it’s useful in giving him time to strategize. Having sensed absolutely no fear from Xander in response to his earlier threats, Spike decides not to return to that tactic. Not that trying to plead with the boy had gone any better…
Something in Spike’s brain is trying to get his attention. He looks down and finds that he’s finished with lunch. The soup is in a bowl, which is sitting on a plate, surrounded by the sandwiches, which have been neatly sliced diagonally. It’s a sickeningly perfect picture and Spike has the perverse urge to mess it up—knock the sandwiches out of alignment or spit in the soup—but he resists.
“It’s ready,” he calls instead.
“Bring it in here, Slut,” Xander calls from the living room.
“Yes, Xander.” Spike’s hands pick up the plate and his legs start to move.
“Oh, but you can grab yourself some blood from the fridge first and put it in a mug…. Don’t heat it up, though.”
Damn it, how is the boy so good at this? Spike thinks as he sets the plate back down and opens the refrigerator. How does he know that it’s the little things—the tiny denials, the most insignificant displays of absolute control—that slowly shred the pride? Spike is also surprised by the amount of blood in the fridge, bag after bag stacked neatly on one shelf. Guess he’s planning to keep me around for awhile...
“Hurry up, Slut! I’m hungry!”
And now Spike’s hand are moving rapidly, but Spike barely notices because the free part of his will is focused entirely on the blood flowing to his crotch at Xander’s tone. Buggering hell, he cannot—will not—let the boy think that he gets off on being dominated. He’s the Big Bad, for Christ’s sake. The Big Bad who is currently scurrying—scurrying, damn it—into the living room to deliver lunch to Xander Harris.
“Why thank you, Spike,” Xander says as he takes the plate. “This looks delicious. You’re such a good little slut. Now sit down and drink your blood.”
Feeling like a bloody two-year-old, Spike starts to sit next to Xander on the couch.
“At my feet, Spike.”
“Yes, Xander,” Spike hears himself saying as he sinks to the floor and starts sipping petulantly at his cold blood.
After a few minutes, Xander reaches down and starts running his hand over Spike’s head. The movements feel so natural that it takes Spike a minute to realize what’s happening and freak out.
“Quit petting me!” he snaps.
“Excuse me?” Xander says, making a fist in Spike hair and pulling none too gently. “I think you’re forgetting who gives the orders here, Slut. And I think you’re done with your blood. Go put the mug in the kitchen, then get in the shower. I want the hair gel gone. It interferes with my petting you. And don’t be in there for more than five minutes. Come back naked and dripping.”
Spike has set the half full mug of blood in the kitchen and is headed for the bathroom when Xander adds:
“Oh, and don’t think I don’t know how hard you are right now. But you will not touch yourself in the shower. You will never touch yourself or come without my express permission. See you in five.”
Part Three
Since Xander hasn’t told him he can’t, Spike makes his five-minute shower icy cold. By the time the gel is out, his erection is down to a level that almost passes for not entirely humiliating. Though, he supposes he should start learning to accept humiliation…
But not today. He holds his head high as his legs carry him into the living room naked and dripping as ordered. When he first catches Xander’s eyes, the heat and lust burning in them stops him in his tracks. It’s all he can do to keep his cock from responding.
It helps when Xander’s expression turns to a smirk.
“Looks like somebody took a cold shower. I suppose I didn’t tell you not to. Still, I want you the way you were before. Stroke that cock for me, Slut. Make it nice and hard again.”
And so much for self-control. Xander’s words are already making Spike hard, even before his hand starts to follow Xander’s instructions. And he isn’t going to last long like this—naked and on display, helplessly performing for Xander, who is leaning back on the couch, legs spread wide, stroking his own hard-on through his jeans. Except that he’s going to last forever like this if Xander wants him to because he can’t come—no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much its going to start to hurt.
“I don’t get it,” Spike begins, in an effort to take his mind off things and maybe get some answers. His hand strokes merrily away as he continues. “Why are you doing this? Even if you really hate me that much—and I always kind of thought we had a decent banter going—but even if you do hate me that much, this still isn’t like you.”
Xander shrugs. “People change. Let’s just say I’m expanding my horizons. And I gotta say, I’m liking the view.”
Spike follows Xander’s leering gaze down to his own hand, then quickly looks up again.
“Okay, so you’ve got a kink for domination. I can respect that. But why me? And don’t you know that the sub’s not really supposed to unwilling?”
“Call me unconscionable, but I just can’t seem to care about willing right now. But I do have my reasons. And I will tell you… when I feel like it. Anyway, let’s have a little less talk, a little more masturbation. And moaning, Slut. I want to hear you moan.”
Once the moaning starts, Spike finds it much more difficult to ignore the humiliating pleasure building in his cock, his belly, the base of his spine. Building to the edge between pleasure and pain.
Xander meets Spike’s eyes to give him a knowing look, looks back down. Then he speaks, never taking his eyes of Spike’s crotch or his hand off his own.
“How does it feel, Slut? To be that hard and not be able to stop touching yourself? To know that you won’t be allowed to come?”
Spike moans.
“Oh, right. You can talk to answer. Tell me. How does it feel?”
“Not so great.”
Xander laughs. A sound Spike is coming to hate.
“Not so great. You’re fucking adorable. I could let you stop. Give you something else to do. If you want. What do you think, Slut? Want something else to do?”
“Doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? Only matters what you say.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, when he’s right, he’s right. Maybe he deserves a prize. Let me think. What do sluts like?” Xander looks off into the distance for a second, as if in serious contemplation. “I know. Sluts like to suck cock. So don’t say I never did anything nice for you. Now, stop touching yourself, get on your hands and knees, and crawl over here.”
And just like that, Spike finds himself crawling. When he arrives at Xander’s knees, he feels Xander’s fingers threading through his ungelled hair, petting him again. It feels almost like tenderness, but he knows it can’t be and he hates it and hates himself for not wanting it to stop. It’s almost a relief when he hears Xander’s voice.
“Sucked a lot of cock in your long life, Slut?”
“My fair share.”
Xander laughs again. “I love that you’re still cocky, naked and kneeling at my feet. And you wonder why I chose you.”
And somehow these words give Spike a certain sense of pride. So when Xander unbuttons and unzips his jeans with one hand while he uses the other hand in Spike’s hair to guide Spike’s head into his crotch, then orders Spike to, “Give me the best blow job you’ve got,” and Spike complies, Spike is almost pleased to hear the whimpers, groans and dirty babbling that pour uncontrollably from Xander’s mouth.
And for a second, as Xander nears his climax, Spike forgets that he isn’t just doing this because Xander has such a beautiful cock and tastes so good, forgets what Xander is making of him… until Xander pulls out and comes all over Spike’s face.
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