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| Loose Ends, Cont'd |
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| What a gorgeous throat...blood so close.... A hand falling on one of his shoulders interrupted his appreciation of the rich, melodic hum of her circulation just below her pale skin. He snapped his head backwards quickly, catching the first of the bouncers square in the face, knocking him senseless and sending him reeling off to the side and into a pack of kids who took turns spinning him around and pushing him in a new direction, denying him an opportunity to get his bearings. Surprised at his mate's fate, the second bouncer briefly broke stride, but rallied quickly and drew back a fist, expecting to deliver a crushing blow to Spike's jaw. Instead, Spike grabbed the blonde's right hand in his left, dodged sideways with her, and clamped his own right fist around the beefy forearm of the bouncer. A quick snap to the outside dislocated the guy's elbow, dropping him to the floor where he shrieked and writhed. Spike had done an infinitesimal amount of damage, relative to his capacity. But as much fun as a good brawl could be, he was now more interested in drenching himself in the moist warmth that the girl's body offered him. He dragged her towards the club entrance and out into the night. ~ / ~ The chief object of Spike's desire had always been, and, he expected, would always be, his Dark Princess. She had introduced him to sexual pleasure, after all, and between his gratitude at the thoroughness of her schooling (he tried never to recall Angelus' role in producing her degree of expertise), and his intense love for her, he could not imagine wanting anyone with the all-consuming passion that she elicited. And yet, there were times when he craved the physical heat of an encounter with a live girl. Dru had taught him this as well, so that neither of them looked at sex with a victim as an infidelity -- as long as it was in the context of the kill. Nevertheless, Spike tended not to indulge himself this way very frequently, thinking it was all the better for the anticipation. And anticipate he did. As he drew the girl deep into the alley behind the club, he was already uncomfortably hard, his sexual and predatory hungers warring for primacy. They had still not exchanged a word, as he pushed her roughly against the brick wall, her hands taking her weight as he positioned himself behind her. Her heartbeat was a triphammer, and her breath was short, speaking to him of her own anticipation, though the earthy scent of her arousal had already done as much. He could almost recall the feeling of his own heart banging against his ribs, though never under such circumstances as these. Bloody wanker! William'd 'ave passed out by now. Couldna 'ave imagined what he was missin'. Despite the almost painful strain of his cock against the zipper of his jeans, he teased himself a few moments more, lifting her skirt and rubbing his clothed member against her bare bottom, filling his hands with the warm flesh, his kneading motions had the effect of stroking his erection through the taut fabric. She pressed back against him impatiently, and he laughed huskily low in his throat, finally unzipping his jeans and freeing his cock. He reached around her and grasped her mons, pulling her back sharply against him, guiding his head to the entrance of her damp channel. "This what you want, pet?" Her only answer was a moan, accompanied by a rotation of her hips against him. He laughed again. So easy... but 'nough playin'.... He tilted her forward just a bit at the waist, leaning backwards himself, and savored the slow sensation of being engulfed in the tight, hot wetness of her. Now it was his turn to groan, and though he didn't need to breathe at all, he was panting with the explosion of sensation around and through his dick. Nothin' else feels like this...Nothin'. He drew back slowly, feeling her flesh clinging to the length of him, before pushing back into her, just a tiny bit faster than the first time. He increased the pace just a touch with each stroke, drawing out the pleasure, and enjoying the way she tightened around him, her muscles massaging him, each time he withdrew. As the rhythm increased, he changed his angle to lean into her, his hands covering hers, and his hips hammering into her with increasing force. Each time he hit bottom, a small gasping cry escaped her, growing in volume and pitch. The sensations were crashing over him in waves, and he knew he was getting close to completion. He had begun to growl low against her ear, and as the smell of her became more intense, his teeth descended, and his eyes glowed yellow in the dark of the alley. He continued to thrust in and out of her slippery core, until her gasps turned into sobs and he felt her grip on him tighten to an impossible degree, and then begin to ripple up and down the length of him. The rest of her body had gone still. His growl now a roar, he pulled back once more, then slammed himself home, going rigid at the bottom. He sank his teeth into her throat at the same instant that he exploded inside her. She filled his mouth almost faster than he could swallow. His cock continued to twitch and spasm inside her, and her muscles to quiver around him as he guzzled the life from her neck. In little more than a moment, she cooled in his arms, slumped back against him, and her heart failed. He had stopped drinking, but held her for a moment yet, his muscles not yet capable of relaxing. Slowly, he released her, and her body slid down his, into a crumpled heap at his feet. Spike looked at her, staring sightlessly up at him, as he tucked himself back inside his jeans, and zipped them up. "Mighty good fuck, pet..." The sound of his own voice startled him, sounding much too loud in the stillness that had filled the alley after the echoes of their copulation had faded away. He turned, drawing his forearm across his mouth, the better to lick up the last traces of her blood. He froze, however, when he saw a figure silhouetted at the end of the alley, some 50 or more yards away, seemingly rooted to the spot. "Fuck!" Perfectly good shag-'n'-shant buzz gonna go ta waste...Bloody witness! Spike advanced slowly, and the young man began to back away, scrambling towards the brick wall on the far side of the alley. He paused by the wall, his shoulders shaking, evidently relieving himself of his dinner. Spike smirked, still stalking him coolly and unhurriedly. This would just take a minute, and then he could get back to savoring the evening's recreation. But the kid recovered himself, and lit out running, taking Spike by surprise. He set off in pursuit, rounding the corner out of the alley, in time to see the kid swing into the driver's seat of a Ford transit van parked nearby. Bloody, soddin' hell... In a flash, Spike was alongside the van, which was just beginning to pull away from the curb. His arm shot through the driver's side window, causing the kid to pull the wheel sharply away and to the right. The back end of the van slid sideways, the impetus knocking Spike off his feet. He slid a short distance on the pavement, the asphalt enhancing the distressed condition of Spike's jeans. The gears of the van were grinding frantically as he pulled himself to his feet and threw himself back in its direction. Reaching the vehicle, he paused, his hands planted on the hood, and they regarded each other in the glow of the streetlamp. Spike grinned, his yellow eyes glittering. He recognized the boy in the leather jacket he'd seen inside the club earlier and could see the individual drops of sweat standing out on his terrified face. Spike threw back his head and howled, kicking a hole into the grillework of the van, and bracing a boot in it for a frontal assault through the windshield, at just about the same time as the kid found reverse. The van shot out from under Spike, backing all the way to the intersection, where he changed direction again and merged into the traffic on the main road. Spike watched from his hands and knees, not even bothering to take the chase up again. He knew there was no point. Besides, he was feeling a bit sluggish. So, the kid would have an interesting story to tell his mates, who would proceed to disbelieve and mock him, and hold him up as an extraordinary pratt. So, he'd returned to the lair, to curl up around Drusilla, where they'd whispered their night's adventures to each other. ~ / ~ He'd never expected to see the kid again. But he knew him the minute that he did. "Fucking little pissant!" It was Chicago, fall of 1982. They had been laying relatively low of late, the result of some latter-day van Helsing who had been on their tail for some weeks, following them east from San Francisco. Spike had pretty well decided that it was about time to leave the country, and was making a beeline for one of the most convenient Great Lakes ports -- Toledo or Cleveland would probably do -- there to hop on some innocuous cargo-hauler, and beat it down the St. Lawrence to one of the Atlantic ports, to find a ship back to Europe. So, they'd reached Chicago on the lam, but with Spike confident that they were a day or more ahead of their pursuer. It was all very irritating -- he figured that the Crusader must be some Watcher who was operating independently -- he knew too much about vampires in general and, Spike had the feeling, him in particular. After all, he was the Slayer of Slayers, wasn't he? What a trophy to bag Old Spike! He never engaged directly. He just kept being there, somewhere over Spike's shoulder which, incidentally, had already taken a bolt from his crossbow. Because he never got too close, Spike hadn't been able to get a scent, and so had had trouble hunting him. But he seemed to be an uncanny urban tracker, picking Spike and Dru's trail up seemingly at will, even after they'd shaken him for several days running. Spike had grown concerned about unwittingly leading him back to their lair, and being roasted in his sleep. So, they'd gone underground and begun moving fast. Which also meant dining cautiously and inconspicuously. |
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