*****

I'm flat on my belly between her legs, practically worshipping the pink, moist cunt in front of me. My hands are resting flush on the incredibly, almost impossibly smooth skin of her inner thighs. Creamy. It's one of the most overused romance-novel adjectives. But jesus fuckin' christ, her thighs *are* creamy. She's creamy all over, and hard underneath it all, not just the sculpted muscles that define her kick-ass body and crazy strength - she's hard all the way through....

But I'm not thinking of her hardness now. This is the creamy part of our day. So I've got one hand on each of her creamy thighs, and my tongue is licking along her slit, tracing her outer lips, dipping into her folds, curling up inside her to lap her slick creamy center....

She likes this, what I'm doing to her. What she really likes most is the feeling that I'm worshipping her. This is the only time I treat her like this, when I'm on my knees to her or crawling on my belly to lie between her legs, my lips and tongue and teeth lavishing attention on her like no one else ever has. She's vibrating, throbbing against my mouth; I feel the flickers of contraction in her muscles, the ones beneath my hands as well as beneath my tongue. She's getting close. I can picture her reclining, propped up on pillows, champagne flute in her hand, the liquid tinted orange because when she's with me like this, she prefers mimosas. It's a whim, she says; and that may be, but it sort of makes me feel special that we have a drink. Even if she's the only one drinking it. So there she is, glass in hand, occasionally tipping it to her mouth. Yeah, she's starting to shiver a little all over now, I bet even her hand is trembling, and I know that as soon as she spills one drop, she'll tell me to -

"Stop."

She always has to be in control, of those around her and of course of herself. So she can never let go, of anything, for any reason. It's been a couple of weeks now, and she's never let me make her come. I don't believe she's ever had an orgasm in her life. Maybe that's why she is the way she is. Maybe that's what hell is - eternity without orgasm. My new girlfriend is, after all, a hell goddess.

The insert-your-own-adjective Glorificus yanks me back by the hair more gently than it seems, pushes me off, and I roll out of her way. Propped up on my side, head resting in my hand, I admire her as she walks to the middle of the room, shaking out her curly, dark gold hair as she regains full composure of her naked body. She calls for her minions with a snap of her fingers, and eyes averted, they come to dress her. (Me, I'm already fully dressed. Still dressed, I should say. Even got my boots on.) She got this idea one time, to have me dress her afterwards, and I laughed so fuckin' hard at the idea of being someone's maidservant I almost rolled off the bed when she tried to order me to do it. She flicked her fingers in annoyance but got over it. She let me get away with refusing because that's not what she wanted me for. Nope, and she didn't want me for the sex, either; that's something I offered her 'cause, I mean, *look* at her! And to tell you the truth, I think I like it more than she does.

Clothed now, minions relegated to her background with a waved hand, she tells me, "It's time," her full lips curling into a deceptively-charming smile.

"About time," I say.

+++

Yeah, this has been a long time coming.

B. stands in the middle of her living room. Her jaw isn't hanging open anymore; now her lips are drawn together in a tight line. She isn't looking back and forth between us anymore; now her eyes are focused on Glory.

The two of us face her, a united front. Glory doesn't really need me here. She can beat the crap out of B. single-handedly; she *has* beaten the crap out of B. single-handedly before, and I'll bet she'll do it again. Me being here - this is all a psychological play.

"Give me my Key," Glory repeats, and this time she adds with a smile, "Or I'll let my girl here tenderize your meat for me." She lays one hand on the back of my shoulder to emphasize that possession, in case B. missed it.

B. switches her gaze to me, the thin hard line of her mouth unfurling, her lips getting softer, soft like that stupidly wounded look in her eyes. Glory laughs because she hasn't missed the fact that our play is working beyond perfection; she doesn't miss much. B. ignores the laugh. It's like Glory isn't even here, the way Buffy is looking at me now. "How can you do this?" she asks me.

"It's easy, B.," I reply with a grin. "I owe her."

Glory's the reason I'm out here. She sent her minions to fetch me from prison in L.A. because she'd found out there was another Slayer, and she had to be sure B. was really the one with the Key. Naturally, I perked up at the mention of Buffy and Sunnydale. 'Yeah,' I told her, 'I know B. She gave me this' - and I showed her my scar, the one where B. had driven my own knife into me. My face was an unreadable mask, I thought, but Glory read something there anyhow. 'Tell me all about it, sweetie,' she said; and I did. She listened to my story, and then she offered me a chance for revenge.

So yeah, I owe Glory big-time.

But there's someone else I owe more.

Glory's the reason I'm out here, yeah - but B.'s the reason I'm here at all. She changed my life; she changed *me*. Walking around in her skin, I learned a thing or two about a thing or two. I didn't learn it all at once. I needed time to figure it out, and sitting there hour after hour, day after day in prison, time was exactly what I had. And the more I thought, the more I wanted to be a better person because of her; I wanted to be a better person *for* her.

So when Glory came to me, I saw my chance to pay B. back. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? So here I am, as close to Glory as I can get. I haven't figured out how to destroy her yet, but I will. And even if I don't, I'll know when she makes her big move and I'll be there. There for B.

I'm trying to tell B. this with my eyes, but that shit doesn't work in real life. I can't stand the way she's looking at me, but there's really no way to hint to her without Glory catching on. Like I said, she doesn't miss much.

Then I get an idea, and I don't know if it will work but I don't have anything to lose, so I go for it.

"Payback's a bitch, B.," I tell her, and place my hand over where my scar lies under my shirt.

Only that's not where the scar is. I've got my hand on the other side of my rib cage from where B. stabbed me and started to save my life for real. I look at her hard, but I don't think she gets it. The way she's looking at me... she's looking... she's looking almost defeated. I never thought I'd see that look on her....

Glory sees it, too. She's not getting her Key today, but that smugly satisfied smile on her face as she looks at B. says 'this is good enough, for now.'

"Come on," Glory says, an ugliness beneath that bewitching smile of hers as she flounces out.

I give B. one final look before I turn and follow. I really don't think she got it.

+++

The back of my head hits the wall with such force that I'm sure one of us has to be broken open this time. I'm getting pretty familiar with this wall. As I slide down it all raggedy-anne, I twist my neck and see a new web of cracked plaster underneath the drying blood smears. Score one for ol' Faith and her skull, coming out ahead on this round. "Ahead," that's a good one. Despite my bruised and bleeding lips, I smile at myself - which enrages her further, if that's possible, so she picks me up and flings me across the room yet again. And now this time it's me who gives; my shoulder goes with a snap-crackle-pop.

Turns out I wasn't as subtle as I thought I was being back at Buffy's. Maybe B. didn't get my hint, but Glory-girl sure did. She doesn't get why I wanted to betray her and she really doesn't give a damn, as she informed me when this game of Bounce-Faith-Off-the-Walls began however long ago it began; the crystal in my watch is shattered, and I've kind of lost track of time now.

My Slayer strength is no match for her, and my healing abilities are falling behind, way behind. I'm starting to feel light-headed, like I'm going to pass out again. She must sense it too and she stops. It's no fun for her, tossing me into concrete if I'm not feeding her black little heart with my conscious agony. She likes it when I cry, though she hates it when I laugh.

I'm not doing either one now. I'm not doing much of anything but bleeding and breathing. I dig deep down inside me and try to muster up a laugh or maybe some more spit for the gorgeous surface of her face. Anything to goad her on to finish me off, because there's no question that's what's going to happen. It's just a matter of time, and it's not that I want to die this time, but if it's inevitable - and it is - I'd really rather it be sooner than later.

She crouches down, her face close to mine, her mouth a twisted smile, taunting me for daring to think I could taunt her. She grips under my chin, squeezing my jaw between her thumb and forefinger, and jerks my head up with a vicious little shake.

"Cute, you think you're real cute, don't you?"

"Yes," I gasp with considerable effort. Sometimes I just like answering rhetorical questions.

"No, cutie pie," she says calmly. "You don't get off that easy. I think what I'll do instead, is take away that clever, deceitful mind you're so proud of." She lets go of my face and my head smacks back against the wall with a dull thud. She presses the fingers of both hands to my temples and pauses in anticipation. "You know how you were always trying to get me to taste you?" Rhetorical again. This time, I choose not to answer. "I just bet you're going to be delicious," she leers, leaning in so close we could kiss.

But instead of soft lips against mine, I feel something that there are no words to truly describe. She arches back and, because I've seen her do it before, I know her fingers are sinking inside my head. But seeing it was no preparation for experiencing it, the way she's penetrating my mind with fingers like ice-razors so sharp and cold they burn, obliterating my senses one by one until I can't feel my own body, I can't taste or smell the world around me, I can't tell what's inside and what's outside, and I'm sorry B., I've let you down again, and I'm going all dim and blurry and all I can hear is a distant humming, a buzzing....

+++

Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz. There's something going on, something important. All the busy bees are buzzing all around, got to fly here, got to fly there, for the Queen Bee, the Green Bee.

I can't fly, not me. I'm walking around from here to there, even though there's something wrong and I'm walking all funny and it kind of hurts, but I have to keep walking 'cause I'm supposed to be doing something, I'm pretty sure, and the busy buzzy bees keep flying, so I keep walking, there's something going on, something going on, bzzz, bzzz, bzzz.

I think I hear something that isn't buzzing. It's a word. It sounds like "Faith." I think I know that word. I stop and look up and someone's coming towards me. I think I know her. She comes close to me and says that word I think I know again. She wraps her arms around me. Her hair is sunshine, silken sunshine brushing against my cheek now and then she's pulled back to look at me with warm green eyes. I keep staring at her because I think I know, I think I can know if I try hard enough... and then, her face close to mine, I see something in her eyes, something escaping her eyes and I bring a finger up and touch the stuff escaping her warm green eyes. It's wet. I touch the wetness with my tongue. It's salty. But it's something else, too. I look at her, so close to me, and the buzzing gets softer and suddenly I know, and my lips curve up into a smile.

"Honey Bee," I say, and smile again.

THE END