Prompt: 15. Throat
Word count: 1680
Table: Complete smut_69 prompt table, along with full headers & warnings.
Notes: BDSM kink. A Blackmail!verse story.
Giles tensed. He was immediately fully awake and alert, nerves on edge. He didn't get up, however. She had told him to wait in bed for her, so he would remain there. Should he kneel up and wait that way, hands clasped behind his neck? Perhaps she would like that. He remained where he was, listening. She was doing something just outside the door, however, snapping out orders to somebody. Or something. Finally the door closed.
Giles lay back and rested his hands at his sides. He attempted to relax. It was difficult. His breath was coming short. The sound of her footsteps moved below, into his kitchen for a moment; she was wearing boots. Then the lightswitch snapping, the flat sinking into deeper darkness, and the creak of the steps. She appeared, rising from the staircase. She wore a red tank top under her leather jacket, jeans, and yes, the boots. She was carrying a bag, which she slung down next to his dresser. She looked pleased with herself for some reason.
"I killed the Huffer thing. Piece of cake--" Then she stopped and took stock of the room. She turned a brilliant smile on him, and Giles grinned in relief.
"This is sweet! My Watcher is a closet romantic. Ooh! Satin! Black satin. Sexy." She ran her hands over a pillow.
"Oh! Shiny! Pretty."
She'd found the plug, and was turning it over and over. He passed along warnings about glass in a few words, and then shifted himself on the bed in anticipation, spreading his legs further. But she put the plug down, and looked under his bed.
"Where's the box?"
"Unpacked. Nightstand drawers. And the, uh, the whips are, um, inside the closet door."
She sat on the bed next to him. He pushed himself up onto an elbow and reached for her, but she casually pressed him back down with a hand flat on his chest.
"Stay where you are. Eyes up on the ceiling." She craned around and looked up at his ceiling. "Okay, it's boring up there, but I'll give you plenty to think about in a minute."
"I-I'm sure," Giles said. He swallowed. Fear trickled down the small of his back. It was odd. He sought this out so eagerly, begged for it, but it still made him shake. And in the moments before it began, whatever it was, he fought urges to flee.
She bent over him and kissed him. He'd no sooner opened his mouth to welcome her when she was gone again, standing and moving to his closet. He listened, attempting in desperation to guess what she was doing. Had she taken anything down? He had a blindfold. Surely she could use it on him and take choice away from him. Now the dresser drawer opening, the rattle of metal as she rummaged inside. Something heavy and metallic was set down on his dresser. The flare of matches, and the light in the room changed. Shadows danced on the ceiling from candle flame. The bedside light went out. Then her slight weight rested on his bed again, shifting the mattress. Boots hit the floor, one, two. He was shaking, hands trembling against the slick sheets.
Then she was on top of him, sitting on his chest, knees tucked against his ribs. She caressed his face. He turned his head just enough to kiss her palm. She slipped two fingers into his mouth. He sucked obediently. It calmed him, which was probably why she'd done it. Buffy had insight into people when she paid attention to them, when she could drag her attention away from self-pity. Giles thought perhaps this experience would be good for more than just the sex, for her. No time for self-pity while she was watching him writhe. Giles shivered.
Buffy took her fingers away and hooked them into the ring at the front of his collar. She tugged it. He'd buckled it tight around his neck, the way he liked it. Snug enough to feel her grip on his throat even when her hands were busy elsewhere.
"Do you have any requests?"
Giles cleared his throat. "The plug, I was hoping--"
"If you're very good, and bear what happens first well, you'll get that. And something even nicer. I've been planning this all day."
"I... Lord, Buffy."
"Do you want to know what's going to happen tonight?"
Giles weighed one sweet terror against another, then shook his head. "Anything. Please. Just... just so you're happy."
Buffy leaned over him and looked into his eyes. "I will tell you one thing. I've decided that every time we get together like this, every time you wear this--" she pulled at the collar, lifting his head from the bed and holding him up-- "I'm going to hurt you at least a little. You want that, I think."
Giles' mouth had gone dry. "God, I-- yes."
She let him drop back. "Ask me for it."
"Please, my Slayer. Please."
For a moment he couldn't speak, then it poured out of him. "Hurt me. Whip me. Make me scream. Please. Take me there. Take me out of myself. Please please please. Oh, God--"
He trailed off, afraid he'd said too much, but she had leaned down to drape herself over his chest. She kissed him and this time lingered. Giles kept his hands by his sides and kissed her in return with all the intensity he could gather. His wonderful Slayer, who tasted like lip gloss and mochas and honey. Then he could not contain himself. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight. She allowed him for a moment, then sat up again.
"Enough. Hands at your sides."
Giles obeyed instantly. "Forgive me."
"S'okay. I'm not going to tie you up tonight. You're going to keep yourself in place."
Giles nodded. She likely did not know how difficult this was for him, holding himself in place, every moment having to make the choice to stay still, to experience whatever it was his mistress was doing to him. He clenched his hands into the sheets, then made himself let go.
"God, you look amazing like that. That hickey is fantastic."
With no warning, she had leaned forward and was biting his neck again, but more gently than before, more kiss than bite. As in the morning, he tilted his head to bare his throat for her, to make his submission obvious. He dug his fingers into the sheets. Then she had moved away again. Her weight came off his stomach for a moment as she reached over to the nightstand for something. He stopped himself from looking over just in time. Then she resettled herself on him, one hand on his chest, one hand holding a knife against his throat, just over the collar. Giles froze, afraid to breathe, to twitch lest the blade slip.
Then it was gone and her fingers were tugging at his collar again. She held the blade in front of his face. It was her folding knife, German steel, his own gift to her on her eighteenth birthday. Giles lifted his head to kiss the blade, and she smiled. A frightening smile, a smile he'd seen on other faces in his life. The smile of a mistress who was about to do something new to him.
Giles closed his eyes.
The tip of the blade grazed his lips. He opened his mouth and felt it slide inside, brushing his tongue. He went very still and tense. The blade was withdrawn, and her weight moved away from him again. She was between his knees, moving them further apart.
Her hand stroked down his chest, and the flat of the blade followed in its path. Sweat trickled down his ribs.
Buffy knew what to do with a knife. He'd taught her himself. How to throw it. How to fight with it in close quarters. How to defend against it when your opponent had one and you did not. How to keep it sharp. She was demonstrating to him now how well she'd learned that lesson, flicking away the hair on his belly, just above where his erection rested.
He was beyond aroused. He was out of his mind with lust and fear and craving, hands digging into the sheets to keep himself still underneath her. She slid the flat of the blade up his stomach, sharp edge trailing, up to his chest. More delicate scraping around his nipples, soft scratching, the edge barely grazing his skin, then away.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He opened his eyes and met hers, dark with excitement, entirely focused on him.
What was she to him? She was everything. He'd been dedicated to her service before she'd even been born; raised and trained and prepared and sent here thousands of miles from his home for no one but her. And she deserved it. Who killed that demon tonight? Not the soldiers with their guns and sensors, their armor and radios.
Buffy, alone, with his knife in her hand. Buffy, alone, with the fate of the world in her hand. Buffy, with his life in her hand.
"Yes, oh yes," he said. "I'm yours."
Giles let go of the sheets and turned his palms up, and let himself melt.
The knife moved everywhere over him. Down his arms and over his upturned palms. Along his sides. Along his thighs, down and up. Between his legs, the blunt edge scraping over sensitized skin. Then sliding over his erection, cold against heat, while he groaned. A strange massage over his entire body, trailing sparks over his skin. His breathing slowed and deepened. He was sliding down into trance, breathing with her, breathing with each slow sweep of the blade across flesh. He was floating free, mind silenced.
She ended where she began, with the blade at his throat, the sharp edge resting against the leather of his collar. The fear was gone. In its place was surrender.
Continued in Touch.