As promised to some
That's to calove for the beta.
Illyria has a plan...
Sucker - Bogwitch
Waking with a start from a slap across the chops wasn’t an unusual way for Spike to greet the new day anymore. Neither was it a great surprise to find Illyria’s strong thighs astride him, holding him immobile, caught in her deadly trap. The room’s cool air circled around his nether bits with an uncomfortable chill, where his bedclothes had gone when she’d discarded them, he had no idea.
“I wish to mate,” she pronounced.
Ignoring the pain still searing his cheek, Spike looked up at her blearily. He’d been having a delightful kip before her sudden interruption. “Give us a minute to wake up first.”
“I am now bound by your linear experience of time. This is the moment of readiness.”
Spike stretched lazily; ready to get to business. He didn’t have a clue what the batty goddess was on about now, but he knew the futility of refusal. Her seduction skills were still in need of work, but his cock had always been Pavlov’s dog to bossy women and it was already hardening under her leather bound rump, rubbing invitingly between her legs as if sensing her readiness.
“Is it now?”
“Now,” she repeated, trembling.
“Are you sure, luv?” Spike looked at her closely. As much as he would like to think that she was shaking with anticipation, he had noticed that she had been looking peaky of late, the pale snow of her shell’s skin sickly against the blue in her hair, and she didn’t look any better now.
She did not reply, but her armour melted from view and she presented him with a bony body with pallid, ashen skin accentuated with touches of midnight. The barrier between them gone, she slid gently onto his erection.
“Guess that’s a ‘yes’ then.”
Guilt had led to this. She’d sent him to heights of ecstasy he’d never thought possible in her demon form, but she had accepted nothing in return. So to maintain the balance he’d tried to give her something back while she still inhabited her human shell. It had taken time to adjust to the weirdness of touching Fred’s body in such an intimate way and it would always be hard to bear, but he understood now that despite the face Illyria still wore, it was longer Fred’s flesh under his hands or her cold corpse he held in his arms, there was only Illyria now.
At first they’d tussled - a struggle he’d always been prepared to lose - each looking for dominance, until Illyria had won and they had settled into a routine. She would never lie beneath him, or allow anything that might be beneath her dignity - and that had proved to be a long list. Illyria wanted to command, hold dominion over him from above. Unlike Buffy, who had been content to follow his lead as long as it suited her, Illyria had found what worked for her and never varied. She led, he followed, and that was that.
Like this, the sex was surprisingly pedestrian for a vampire and a God King of the Primordium. After the vibrancy that even a Slayer who wished to be dead could bring, Illyria was cold and lifeless. Even the soft grunts she emitted as they fucked were automatic, syncopated breaths that owed nothing to the abandon of sex, and all to the effort of exertion. He obliged her, giving what she needed, but he was waiting for the encore. The part that made it all worth it.
Their arrangement worked because she could not, or would not, love; because this time he didn’t fool himself with false hope. Illyria was too arrogant; too self-possessed to ever let anyone inside her head or her heart. Given time, Wesley might have seen past her mask, but Spike wasn’t looking for such a gift. He found her uncomplicated, straightforward in her demands; she was how she was. She found him a challenge, he’d discovered. After hoards of fawning sycophants, he fancied she liked his teasing subordination.
He ran a hand over the curve of her breast, finishing the arc with a tweak to the little perky nipple. She didn’t react, but continued to rise and fall on his cock. Like this she didn’t want kisses or the sweet touch of a caress, she didn’t require his affections, but tolerated them. What she offered, when she leaned in and kissed him, without passion or the warmth of love, was a token given only to encourage him to keep thrusting.
Nevertheless, she was beginning to understand the pleasures he could bring to her new body and he found that she’d wanted sex more and more. He expected nothing less of Illyria, old demon, aloof goddess, someone else’s deity. He couldn’t touch her mind, only her willing body. But there were moments, unguarded ones, where he’d touch her; the side of her throat, the gentle slope of her hip, the red-hot destruct button of her clit, when the ice would crack and her unwitting cry would betray her.
Then she would pump him harder than before and she rode like the jockey of a derby winner, galloping to an orgasm that threw her into her transformation as she came. Her eyes never left his as they altered in hue, the frost melting from her medusa stare as they darkened into glassy jewels.
She rose above him, leaving him prone on the bed. Her arms multiplied, elongating into thick snakes, all changing as she melted into her demon shape. Many yearning arms reached for him. A strong, thick tentacle wrapped itself around his middle, pulling him clean into the air like Fay Wray in some strange, warped version of King Kong. Others wrapped themselves around each leg, ensnaring him, gently pulling them apart to his full extension. He was vulnerable, exposed to her like no other, held like a puppet on thick strings. She had the strength to pull him apart if she chose, but she was gentle. And when she brushed a tentacle across his lip so sweetly, he smiled at the whimsy of her affection as if this was the only way that she could let go and express herself.
She started to play, with firm strokes that roamed slowly over him, down then up again, flowing and ebbing against his chest, leaving it awash with tingles, tiny suckers pressing tight kisses against puckered skin. His nipples were pinched in revenge for his own teasing touches. His navel was probed. His neck was traced from ear to the hollow of his collarbone. Every inch of him was touched.
Smooth as silk, the tentacles wound around him, skin against undulant coils of muscle. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to the sensation, feeling each tentacle as it explored him. He relaxed into the darkness of her scent; heavy, intoxicating incense like those Patchouli filled rooms he remembered from the sixties.
His cock was still hard and it needed attention. Illyria took hold of it in her serpentine grip, a tentacle winding around it, wringing it vigorously with a mesmerising ripple along the shaft, rolling and squeezing as it spiralled from balls to tip. Another probed deeply into more personal places, thrusting deeply inside, sliding against his most intimate pleasure spot with a slow, languorous rhythm, drawing out the fuck into a sensual bliss.
This was full immersion sex, every erogenous zone stroked and caressed, nowhere left unexplored. He felt weightless, his mind in freefall. To have everything at once, to be touched in all places, all limbs, was ecstasy as white noise, sending his mind into meltdown.
He was close, and she drew his cock inside her, into a tight hole that sucked at his sensitive flesh with no mercy. If sex was white noise, ecstatic static in his brain, then orgasm was explosion, a dynamite blast from his loins that left him panting, sated, euphoric, exhausted; adrift in a jumble of emotions he would never begin to sort out.
Illyria released him and he smiled smugly back at her as he recovered, blinking away lights from behind his eyes that she could not see.
“Good as ever, blue,” he gasped.
As usual, his comments were of little consequence to her. “It is complete,” she said as she segued back into the form of her human shell. “There will be offspring.”
Spike tried to sit up, but was stayed by the iron of her hand. “What?”
“You have provided me with the essence required for reproduction.”
“Just thought we were having a little fun here...”
Her head jerked as she regarded him. “You have served your function well.”
“I’m dead, Illyria. Those wrigglies don’t work no more.”
“You are a demon, if but a shadow of one. Your essence is adequate.”
Now off to work on Part Two: The Birth.