PART 5 - Behind Blue Eyes
When Spike returned to his crypt he was still quite aroused.
His mind wandered back to the moment when he had held Xander's head between
his hands, when they had stared at each other wonderingly.
He should have just grabbed the boy there and then and planted a kiss on
those tempting lips. Should have pressed himself against Xander's heated body.
Should have just went right on ahead. The boy had been ripe for the picking.
His heartbeat, his smell and the heat of his body had betrayed him. He HAD been
aroused. Oh yes. Funny, how just a few months ago, the whelp wanted him dust -
now, it looked like he wanted him. *Who’d have thought...?*
Spike felt his member hardening again. He sat down in his armchair,
spreading his legs slightly to make himself more comfortable. He closed his
eyes and inhaled deeply. Yes, he could smell a trace of Xander, the scent was
still lingering. *Oh yes.* His left hand wandered down to rub his
erection through the rough fabric of his pants. Meanwhile his right hand crept
underneath his T-shirt, caressing his chest and slowly making its way to his
left nipple.
How would Xander touch him? Roughly? Softly? Uncertainly? It was a shame
he couldn't warm his hands somehow. The lack of warmth of his own fingers made
this fantasy much more difficult to maintain than a mere replay of passionate
memories with Dru. He softly circled the nipple with his fingertip and felt it
harden under his – no, Xander's! - touch. Xander kissing him. *Yes, good...
Now the other nipple. God, yes!* He moaned. The sound reverberated from the
naked crypt walls. It was a hollow and lonely sound.
He opened his eyes. Reality looked very harsh and bare. He got up,
turned the TV on and zapped until he found a channel with a very boring looking
chick-flick. It had a nice musical score, though. He turned the volume down,
until all that was left was a soothing murmur.
He got back to his chair and closed his eyes again. Yes, that was
better. *Now, where was I?* Yes, Xander's mouth on his nipples, playing
with them. He shoved his shirt upwards, then he put a finger in his mouth and
when it was coated with saliva he rubbed its wetness over his nipple, pretending
it was Xander's tongue. Pretending that his hands were busy elsewhere. Like
burying themselves in a shock of silky brown hair...
He unbuckled his belt and went on to unbutton his pants. His hardness
was straining to be freed of its confinement. He wriggled his hips, pushing his
tight jeans down just a bit, to give his hand the room it needed to cup his
balls lightly. He slid his left hand between his legs, stroking his balls and
tickling his thighs, almost avoiding his erection, as if saving it for later,
but eventually his hand closed on his erect shaft.
As Spike pleasured himself with slow, sure strokes he imagined giving
that hurtful mouth something else to do than hurl insults at him. Xander's lips
surrounding him, moist and delicious... to plunge into that mouth, thrusting,
yes... oh, yes... He began to pant. Even after 120 years of undeath he was
unable to break with the habit of breathing, when in the throes of passion.
Also, with each breath he was able to taste Xander's scent. His strokes became
more urgent. His movements became rougher and his hips were bucking with the
rhythm. His cock was slick with pre-come.
But something was missing. He didn't just want to fuck the young human,
he wanted... wanted... He imagined himself touching the man's hardness, feeling
his want, *Oh, aren't you a needy boy! Oh god… yes!* He wanted to hear
him moan, beg for release, wanted
Xander to want HIM. *Come on, say it!* Wanted to hear his name called
out as he... came, hard, trembling as he rode the peaks of orgasm.
For a while he just lay there, panting, his eyes closed, drawing strange
comfort from the background babble of the television. Then he took off his
T-shirt, used it to wipe the sticky come off his stomach and shaft. Then he
tossed the crumpled piece of clothing to the floor. Too bad, he didn't have any
booze left. It would have been nice to finish what had been started and drink
himself into a proper stupor. He turned the telly off, climbed downstairs and
stretched out on his bed, without bothering to take off his pants or boots.
Slowly, his breathing stopped. He stared into darkness. The melodious song of a
thrush finally sent him to sleep.