Thanks to ladywenham for help with part one, calove for last night's beta (it probably needs another look, but I want rid of it now), vegmb for letting me pinch one of her ideas.
As calove put it, it turned out "sexy and sweet, in a seriously strange sort of way"!
There were times when Spike would wonder what his unlife might have been like if only he could’ve kept his mouth shut.
Back in the motel room, Illyria had wasted no time. Within seconds of their arrival, she’d thrown him onto the shabby bed and was astride him, pinning him down with a glare that was somewhat less than erotic.
“You have challenged me,” she said.
Spike grinned. “Yeah, and I bet you like that.”
“I have no need of base acts such those you wish for. I have further use for you, but I am fallen to live with the filth. I have nothing left to offer but copulation.”
“Bet you’re curious too, pet.”
Illyria’s head twitched as she scrutinised his words. “I have use for understanding this wretched world.”
“Thought so,” Spike couldn’t resist the tease. “Secrets out, Smurfette. You just can’t resist a bit of Spike.”
Illyria ignored him. “You will continue,” she commanded, as her battlesuit melted away.
Spike had little choice but to look her over, as she filled the full range of his view. The body revealed was scrawny and, no longer flushed with the glow of living flesh, as white as virgin snow. Here and there, the sharp points of her contours were highlighted with dustings of lapis like pictish woad. His eyes lingered on small, but perky breasts tipped with hard points like blue Iced Gems, before following the flat valley of her belly, a smooth plane of muscle with no soft, sweet curves, to below. Blue was her natural colour, it seemed.
Without emotion, she reached out and ran a graceful hand over his T-Shirt, following the engraved muscles of his chest under the fabric, stopping only as he flinched. Even with the unearthly eyes and the pallor of her blue-flecked skin, there was too much of Fred in the mix for his comfort.
“My appearance is disturbing to you. You no longer wish this?” Illyria said, staring down at him.
“Too many memories, pet. Science girl was good to me, you know.”
Illyria tilted her head, pondering her next move, unaffected by his reticence. “I can assume any shape I choose.”
He thought about that. Was this a good idea? His drink-addled brain couldn’t tell. He just knew what he didn’t want. Fred made him sad rather than horny. And if he could choose anyone else, perhaps someone more familiar might make this a little more pleasant. But who was there? Buffy was tempting, given that he’d like more than anything to be back in her arms, but the pain of missing the real Buffy was too raw for that. After his experiences with the Buffybot, only the really real Buffy would ever do. The other choices were equally inappropriate; Harmony was a scary prospect after their last encounter and Dru brought back too many memories that the soul would rather not contemplate.
He was about to plump for Angelina Jolie when he had a better idea, but not one he’d fully thought through. “Just be yourself.”
“That would be acceptable.” Illyria agreed.
The alcohol in system had begun to recede a little and he began to wonder what the hell he’d got himself into as Illyria shifted into a different form, a change as quick as any other he’d seen her do. Pale skin darkened to cobalt, skinny limbs grew longer and multiplied into numerous arms; thick, writhing tentacles of which any great sea monster would have been rightly proud. Her eyes, dead and cold in the body of her host, pooled into limitless wells of indigo, that shone in the light from the bare bulb above them. She grew taller, broader, her shoulders arching and thickening as she grew in stature, towering above him. This was no ordinary demon, one fated to be slain by a Slayer in some alleyway or cemetery, but something primitive and pure. This was truly an Old One. Kali unbound, serpent naga, a not so little Shiva. And tonight she was his very own.
“Right,” Spike said, slightly panicked. “Wasn’t expecting Squiggly Diddly.”
She said nothing, and he wasn’t really sure that she was capable.
Revolted, yet fascinated, he offered her his hand, holding it out to meet her as she gingerly extended a tentacle towards him. It was as thick as his arm at its widest near the base and it slowly tapered to a narrow tip. It was covered in a skin slickly smooth and velvety soft, shining with a glorious sheen. As it gently encircled his arm in a twisted caress, he felt tiny little suckers, each one less than half the size of a penny, kiss him lightly as they travelled. He tingled where they touched and the sensation felt surprisingly wonderful.
She tightened her hold, and then with a slight tug, pulled him up to her, lifting him clear from the bed. The many arms reached out to receive him, each one dedicated to his pleasure. They slid around him like constrictors, forming a tangle of limbs and tentacles until he was hopelessly knotted into her embrace. They held him firmly not tightly, some caressing, some supporting, others starting to explore. Drunk as he was, he went with it. No need this time to pretend that this was anything other than what it was, and no chance of recalling bad memories or lost opportunities. And all the attention for a change did feel rather nice…
A few arms were diverted from other tasks to pull off his shirt, while others dealt with his boots and jeans, pulling and tugging until they were off.
“Hey! That was new!” He protested, as his T-Shirt was torn into pieces, but his words were half-hearted as her touches became bolder.
Constantly moving, writhing like a pit of adders, each arm felt like another hand searching for the nirvana of his sweetest spots; hands massaging limbs and torso, hands along his back and chest, hands gripping his ass; all sliding with their own natural oils. Hands everywhere, fondling, groping, some coiled around his arms and legs, holding him helpless.
He closed his eyes, letting go and losing himself in the forest of limbs and sensations. A soft ripple against his navel felt like the flutter of a kiss. A smooth tendril traced a slick path along his shoulder to caress the sensitive zones along his neck, before slinking through his hair and pulling it back to allow a dozen snakes to slide up his throat. Caresses so light they went straight to his groin and his erection bobbed once against his stomach, before it was whipped up by a tentacle that looped sinuously around it. The slide of the muscle along its entire length, spiralling, twisting, like no tongue ever could, felt as good as the best blow job he’d ever had.
Other touches could have been the trail of Dru’s nail down his chest, making him shudder, or Buffy’s tiny hands gripping his shoulders with her uncanny strength as she strained with effort. So many touches, like a thousand and one kisses all at once and he didn’t feel vulnerable or intimidated, just intense; a sensory overload for his tactile senses, no one pleasure dominating the others as she expertly played his body like an instrument of lust.
With so many sensations, Illyria’s arms found new places to investigate. He barely noticed an tentacle flow down his spine with a sweeping stroke, the tip snaking behind him to tease the tender skin of his anus, not least until it had slipped inside and found a more exquisite place to tickle. But before he could register his surprise, he felt his cock sucked into a soft, warm place, a toothless maw that sucked him in like Jenna Jamieson would in some of his favourite fantasies.
From that point, the tension began to build inside him, telling him something big was about to happen like a three-minute warning of an incoming nuclear strike. It gathered energy, building and building until his senses could only focus on the slide of his cock.
Then it hit; a Hiroshima of an orgasm, blasting through him with wave after wave as she wrung the pleasure out of him, drawing it out until he was gasping for air he didn’t need. He cried out and shook as he came, straining rigidly against the bonds of her grip.
The intensity receded and he hung limply in her embrace. Carefully, she laid his body down onto the bed and his head sank into the pillow with relief. If he could form words, he couldn’t speak them coherently. He was spent, liquid; his body felt not just alive for the first time in 120 years, but in a state beyond that. His body, he noticed, was mottled with the evidence; circles that spotted his flesh, little round love bites that marked where the suckers had been. He reached up and ran a hand nervously through his ruffled hair, now all teased out into unkempt curls. What could he say? The experience had been amazing, but he was at a loss to know how to return such ecstasy to her.
He need not have worried. Illyria had moulded herself back into the body of her host, and the battlesuit had demurely reappeared, as had the contemptuous stare that seemed to deny that anything had happened. So much for the afterglow, he thought.
“So…?” He started, rolling slowly over and starting to hunt for his cigarettes in the pocket of his discarded jeans. He could barely move and his body felt like jelly, and still his nerves rippled ecstatically.
Illyria turned to him. “You are satisfied.”
Spike found his cigarettes and sprawled onto the bed again. Tucking an arm back behind his head, only his cigarette interrupted his smug grin. “Somewhat, yeah. You get what you wanted?”
“The experience taught me much. The pleasure centres of your kind are many.”
“Found some optional ones too,” Spike coughed and shifted uncomfortably. “So, that’s what you really look like, eh?”
“It is but a representation. My true form would darken the sun,” she said. Then she added sadly, “you would tremble in my presence.”
Spike nodded, he knew intimately what it was like to be a shadow of what you once were. Brain still zinging with climax, he was sure of only one thing. His mouth might get him regularly into trouble, but his unlife was far less dull because of it. “Well, it looks good on you.”
Succour Part One here