Detente
This is my contribution to nekid_spike's KINK DAY. Especially for the lovely ash_carpenter because I lurve her and her hints are so amazingly subtle. Hope you like it, girlfriend.
Detente
“You’re bloody sick, mate. Just admit it, and we’ll get you some help. S’like kickin’ any addiction. Have to take the first step. That’s the hardest part, see. Know you can do it.” Spike’s voice rose an octave. “No! No! Jesus, stop rubbin’ me like that. What the bleeding hell is the matter with you? Remember me? Spike? This ain’t the long ago. You don’t even like me now, pillock, let alone wanna wank my dick in my jeans.”
Spike struggled wildly against the magically enhanced handcuffs binding his wrists behind his back, trying to dodge away from what Angel was doing to him. Spread-eagled and roped down across Angel’s desk, he wasn’t having much luck with that, or avoiding the bear-sized paw working sharpish at bringing him off with his kit still on.
“Come on, Peaches. At least get me out, don’t make me mess myself. That’s just nasty.”
“Keep talking, baby,” Angel giggled. “Wouldn’t be half the fun if I didn’t make you beg. Beg me some more. You know how pretty you look when you do it. Tell me again how much you hate coming in your drawers.”
Angel, it turned out, had drunk some kind of inhibition relaxant by accident. Through no fault of Spike’s. Just because he’d come into the office early to moil about and make life a general delight for his sire, and he’d brought along the mad old ruin’s morning ration of otter that he’d found on Harm’s desk, didn’t make it Spike’s fault. How the shite was he to know it wasn’t Angel’s, and was chock full of some mind-altering bollocks meant to jolly along the Marvyox embassador. Smelled just fine, to Spike.
But when Angel had drunk it down, all in a gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked around for afters, well, he should have known right then, there was something drastically wrong. His eyes lit on Spike like he was the shiny new toy he’d just ordered from the latest toss catalogue. Spike suddenly found himself flat on his back before he could say, ‘Unhand me vile villain.’ Hog-bloody-tied and splayed out like a tray of pastries at one of those posh restaurant the old poofter loved to swank about in.
Spike would never turn down a hand job, unless it involved shooting his load in his knickers, well, not knickers, but you know what he meant. Feeling his cum sloshing around his softening dick, pooling around the seam under his balls, everything going squish when he tried to move? Dirty that was. He was as dirty as the next fellow...but, he had a thing about it. Something to do with one of Dru’s more wicked punishments in a bedsitter in Brighton. He’d draw the veil across that one. And Angel, the prat, knew it right well.
Spike was caught. He would have galloped away gladly, but the git had him by the short ‘n curlies. Literally. Was actually pulling at them through the soft denim until Spike’s whole groin ached and his prick was swollen and hammer hard.
“Give it up, Spike. I just love you all helpless.”
Angel spoke with merry eyes, his lips curved up like he was just about to eat a four course meal with rum pudding for a sweetie. He jacked Spike happily, somehow managing a good grip on his erection even though it was still encased in Spike’s pants.
“Take me out. Take me out,” Spike began to chant.
He knew he was nearing the finish, and at this point wanted his knob sucked. Hell, he’d settle for some fingers up his pucker. He just needed to feel air on his cock and a bare hand on his body to speed him along. Fuck. Please. No to the jiz in his jeans.
“Peachessss,” he moaned, lifting his head from the leather blotter to see Angel bent over his fly, lapping at the damp material covering his cock with the eagerness of a thirst-mad Saint Bernard.
Bob’s your uncle, and that was all it bloody took. Spike pissed his jeans full of spunk, writhing on the desk, his arse bucking with the fervor of electrocution. Bounce, bounce, bounce. His eyes clenched tight. It felt like he was shooting the moon, everything floating and his head turned ‘round backwards so he could see the earth falling away. Seemed it weren’t quite so terrible after all.
He came to with a hard, flat grunt, sprawled languidly beneath Angel, who had crawled up onto the desk, and hung above him. Nothing being left to spill, Spike squinted one eye at the barmy prat, who was busy working his fly open one brad at a time. The flaps peeled stickily aside, Angel began to tidy him up. He couldn’t toss for taffy, Spike assured himself, but the sod could suck like a fucking hoover. He lay in a mindless puddle of bliss until he began to get up the wood for a second go.
“Don’t start a ruction, Spike.” A little bit of the Irish slipped into Angel’s speech when Spike began to squirm again and lift his thighs with helpless whimpers. “You’ll like this part best.”
“No ructions here, pet. I’m thinking you’re right. Crack on. Don’t mind me. Promise I’ll do the decent for you soon as my legs start working.”
Angel raised his head, his lips glistening. “‘K. And we’ll get you some clean pants too, so you can have another accident. You’re such a dirty boy, messing yourself like that. Daddy will just have to spank your bare ass if you do it again.”
The evil smile went straight to Spike’s bollocks. He shivered all over. Suppose if push came to shove, he could manage a time or two more, being the kind-hearted bloke everyone took him for. After all, he had a record of sacrificing himself for the greater good.
Detente
“You’re bloody sick, mate. Just admit it, and we’ll get you some help. S’like kickin’ any addiction. Have to take the first step. That’s the hardest part, see. Know you can do it.” Spike’s voice rose an octave. “No! No! Jesus, stop rubbin’ me like that. What the bleeding hell is the matter with you? Remember me? Spike? This ain’t the long ago. You don’t even like me now, pillock, let alone wanna wank my dick in my jeans.”
Spike struggled wildly against the magically enhanced handcuffs binding his wrists behind his back, trying to dodge away from what Angel was doing to him. Spread-eagled and roped down across Angel’s desk, he wasn’t having much luck with that, or avoiding the bear-sized paw working sharpish at bringing him off with his kit still on.
“Come on, Peaches. At least get me out, don’t make me mess myself. That’s just nasty.”
“Keep talking, baby,” Angel giggled. “Wouldn’t be half the fun if I didn’t make you beg. Beg me some more. You know how pretty you look when you do it. Tell me again how much you hate coming in your drawers.”
Angel, it turned out, had drunk some kind of inhibition relaxant by accident. Through no fault of Spike’s. Just because he’d come into the office early to moil about and make life a general delight for his sire, and he’d brought along the mad old ruin’s morning ration of otter that he’d found on Harm’s desk, didn’t make it Spike’s fault. How the shite was he to know it wasn’t Angel’s, and was chock full of some mind-altering bollocks meant to jolly along the Marvyox embassador. Smelled just fine, to Spike.
But when Angel had drunk it down, all in a gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked around for afters, well, he should have known right then, there was something drastically wrong. His eyes lit on Spike like he was the shiny new toy he’d just ordered from the latest toss catalogue. Spike suddenly found himself flat on his back before he could say, ‘Unhand me vile villain.’ Hog-bloody-tied and splayed out like a tray of pastries at one of those posh restaurant the old poofter loved to swank about in.
Spike would never turn down a hand job, unless it involved shooting his load in his knickers, well, not knickers, but you know what he meant. Feeling his cum sloshing around his softening dick, pooling around the seam under his balls, everything going squish when he tried to move? Dirty that was. He was as dirty as the next fellow...but, he had a thing about it. Something to do with one of Dru’s more wicked punishments in a bedsitter in Brighton. He’d draw the veil across that one. And Angel, the prat, knew it right well.
Spike was caught. He would have galloped away gladly, but the git had him by the short ‘n curlies. Literally. Was actually pulling at them through the soft denim until Spike’s whole groin ached and his prick was swollen and hammer hard.
“Give it up, Spike. I just love you all helpless.”
Angel spoke with merry eyes, his lips curved up like he was just about to eat a four course meal with rum pudding for a sweetie. He jacked Spike happily, somehow managing a good grip on his erection even though it was still encased in Spike’s pants.
“Take me out. Take me out,” Spike began to chant.
He knew he was nearing the finish, and at this point wanted his knob sucked. Hell, he’d settle for some fingers up his pucker. He just needed to feel air on his cock and a bare hand on his body to speed him along. Fuck. Please. No to the jiz in his jeans.
“Peachessss,” he moaned, lifting his head from the leather blotter to see Angel bent over his fly, lapping at the damp material covering his cock with the eagerness of a thirst-mad Saint Bernard.
Bob’s your uncle, and that was all it bloody took. Spike pissed his jeans full of spunk, writhing on the desk, his arse bucking with the fervor of electrocution. Bounce, bounce, bounce. His eyes clenched tight. It felt like he was shooting the moon, everything floating and his head turned ‘round backwards so he could see the earth falling away. Seemed it weren’t quite so terrible after all.
He came to with a hard, flat grunt, sprawled languidly beneath Angel, who had crawled up onto the desk, and hung above him. Nothing being left to spill, Spike squinted one eye at the barmy prat, who was busy working his fly open one brad at a time. The flaps peeled stickily aside, Angel began to tidy him up. He couldn’t toss for taffy, Spike assured himself, but the sod could suck like a fucking hoover. He lay in a mindless puddle of bliss until he began to get up the wood for a second go.
“Don’t start a ruction, Spike.” A little bit of the Irish slipped into Angel’s speech when Spike began to squirm again and lift his thighs with helpless whimpers. “You’ll like this part best.”
“No ructions here, pet. I’m thinking you’re right. Crack on. Don’t mind me. Promise I’ll do the decent for you soon as my legs start working.”
Angel raised his head, his lips glistening. “‘K. And we’ll get you some clean pants too, so you can have another accident. You’re such a dirty boy, messing yourself like that. Daddy will just have to spank your bare ass if you do it again.”
The evil smile went straight to Spike’s bollocks. He shivered all over. Suppose if push came to shove, he could manage a time or two more, being the kind-hearted bloke everyone took him for. After all, he had a record of sacrificing himself for the greater good.