Giles commits an indiscretion, and gets into a spot of trouble. Buffy has a few opinions about that. Mid season 4, before "A New Man".



“Thank you for coming by, Buffy. I’m sorry about the short notice, but it’s rather urgent.”

Giles hadn’t met her eyes since she’d come in the flat. Buffy began to feel nervous. What was he about to tell her? That he was going back to England? Her stomach felt funny when she thought about that idea. She freely admitted she hadn’t seen much of him the last few weeks. Partly that was because Riley had thrown a jealous fit when she’d said she was thinking about training with Giles again. No, it was mostly because of that, and because Riley had invented things for them to do every time she tried to come over here. She’d had to tell him to get bent tonight, even.

Buffy was sick of that. She needed Giles’ training, needed his special knowledge of Slaying and the occult. And it was past time she took charge of her life and did what she knew she needed. And what Buffy needed was a Watcher. Which wouldn’t happen if Giles left. What was up? He was feeding her tea with little cookies. That said it was serious.

“Giles. This is killing me. Please just tell me what’s up.”

“I, I…” Giles shook himself, and when he spoke again his stammering was a little better. “I’m being blackmailed. Or rather, someone is trying to blackmail me, and I have told them to publish and be, be damned.”

Buffy let her shoulders sag in relief for a moment. Then she tensed again. Somebody needed to have their head ripped off.

“Who?” she said.

“No one important to you. The information they’re attempting to hide is important. The location and weakness of a demon new in town. They know of my connection to you, and were attempting to get me to hide it. I cannot… I cannot be used to protect demons.” Giles still wouldn’t look at her.

“Okay. I get that. What’s the threat? Do you need me to stop it?”

“The threat involves you. I will tell you about the demon, you will Slay the demon, and then, ah. They will send photographs to you.”

Buffy watched Giles’s hands fidgeting with his teaspoon.

“There really isn’t anybody else they could use against me,” he continued, almost muttering. “I have no job, no other personal relationships. Nobody else matters to me as much as you do. I, uh, I will understand, Buffy, if you choose to, to avoid me after this.”

“Avoid you more than I have been, you mean,” Buffy said, drily.

“Well. It can get worse. Or so I have assured myself.” He sounded endlessly sad, and worse. Resigned to it.

Buffy rubbed his shoulder, on impulse. Giles flinched. She kept rubbing, though, and he seemed to relax a tiny bit. “Okay, tell me what to expect. Photographs of what?”

Giles stiffened again. “Ah. Sexual activity.”

“With what, a goat? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, regular old–”

“With a woman. A, a, professional.”

“Oh,” said Buffy. She thought about that for a bit. That had a lot of implications. At last, she said, “I’m not happy that my Watcher has to pay to get what he ought to be able to get from a regular smoochie-partner.”

Giles flushed and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. The reality is that I haven’t been able to, to, to find a partner. And so I paid for it. And now I am paying again.”

Buffy knew this had to be killing Giles, to go through exposing his private life to anybody. The idea that strangers had taken photos of him had to be hell all by itself. He looked like it was killing him, all hunched in on himself at the other end of the couch. “Hey. Giles. Don’t worry. I promise not to hate you.”

“Still. If you could refrain from looking at them, when they arrive, I would be obliged.” He fumbled off his glasses and gave them a polish on his sweater.

“Right. Now tell me all about this demon I’m gonna kill tonight.”

The package arrived two days later, in her dorm mailbox. A manila envelope, with a local postmark on it and no return address. Stiff from what felt like a piece of cardboard. A little thick. Buffy carried it up to her dorm room, tucked into the three-ring binder with her life sciences labwork. Willow was there, chattering about impending finals. Impending, hell; they were three weeks away and Willow was studying already. But Buffy couldn’t do anything about the package while Willow was there to be curious about it. And she didn’t want Willow knowing about this. Giles would die.

Willow took off around dinner time to hang out with Tara. Buffy continued with her English Lit reading for a little while after that, but the package was staring at her. Even hidden in the binder. She should burn it. Tearing it up probably wouldn’t be enough. She dug in the drawer where she had a Zippo stashed away, for the naughtier sort of dorm parties, then stopped when she remembered she couldn’t burn it in the dorm. Tonight on patrol, maybe? Would it catch fire all in a lump like that? Maybe she should burn the photos one at a time.

Buffy ripped it open and slid out the contents face-down. Photos, cover letter, sheet of cardboard. She counted. Twenty photos. Eight by ten glossies.

Buffy reasoned this way: If she didn’t look, this would always work as a threat. If she didn’t really, totally know all the way what Giles had to hide, somebody could always threaten to expose it. And how wild could it be, anyway? He’d said a woman. One woman.

She turned the cover letter over without reading it and looked at the first one. Okay, she could see why Giles didn’t want people knowing about this. Yeah, it was sex with a woman, but it wasn’t exactly vanilla. Vanilla didn’t involve the guy on his knees with a blindfold on. And his hands tied. And wearing what Buffy had learned from Dorm Porn Night was a cock ring. Around what was a pretty impressive package, she had to say. Gotta hand it to the Watcher there.

Vanilla definitely didn’t involve the stuff in the next few photos, either. Buffy had seen it all before, at the aforementioned Porn Night. And some of it she’d read about, in books that she kept hidden in boxes deep inside her closet where even Willow’s curiosity wouldn’t turn them up. The bondage video they’d run had had Buffy breathing hard in seconds. She’d hidden herself in the corner of the room and hoped nobody noticed. She was breathing hard again now.

Lucky Giles, who got to do some of that stuff, even if he paid for the privilege.

Though Buffy admitted, as she lingered on the one where Giles had come, she envied the woman in the photos more than him. You never saw more than her high-heeled boots and legs, and her hands with the whip and the other stuff, but in Buffy’s book, she was having the most fun. Not that Giles wasn’t. The expression on his face was amazing. Pained and ecstatic and wild. Buffy wanted to see it without the blindfold in the way. It was just that Buffy wanted to be making somebody else’s face screw up like that. Be the one in charge.

She imagined doing those things with Riley. Good old solid soldier boy, with his hands tied in the small of his back and clamps on his nipples. Begging her. Buffy couldn’t see it. That was never going to happen. Riley bitched when she wanted to be on top when they had sex. As if that meant anything at all.

The expression on Giles’ face when she had said “bondage fun” to him once. The little dip of the head Giles made when she went into in-charge Slayer mode. The way Giles did what she ordered him to, when she bothered to. How amazingly turned on she was, right now, thinking about that first photo of him, just kneeling with his hands behind his back, cock jutting out.

Doing those things with Giles, now that would be hot. The thought of that careful, buttoned-up, controlled man, coming unglued, letting it all out. Oh, god. Pity he’d never consider doing it with her. He’d probably get all stuffy and talk about propriety. As if Watchers and Slayers hadn’t been getting it on for centuries.

Buffy flipped back through the photos one at a time, paying careful attention to Giles’ face. She knew him well, from years spent fighting together. Some of that stuff he loved, and some things he liked less. The top should have spent more time talking to him first. Buffy could do better, she bet.

She flipped back to the cover letter. Laser printed, her name in the salutation, then a single paragraph: “Perhaps you find this information as interesting as we did: He addressed her as Slayer.”

Buffy slid the photos back into the envelope and locked it into her desk drawer, along with the Zippo. She sat back and thought. Planned. Seize the day. Bank balance, okay. She knew where the fetish shop was, and she knew that the tattoo and piercing place also carried BDSM stuff. But first, the university library. She had to know what she was doing, or this plane wouldn’t fly.

The Slayer uncoiled herself from her chair and was in motion.


Five days after he and Buffy had cleared the nest of Kammer demons, at nine-thirty in the evening, Rupert Giles sat in his armchair, drinking two fingers of the Macallan neat and attempting to read a spy novel. He’d been staring at the same page for half an hour. He thought that he should probably give it up, toss back the whisky, and turn in early. He hadn’t seen Buffy since they’d slaughtered the demons together, and he’d been on edge the entire time.

The demon’s representative had to have followed through on the threat by now, and sent Buffy the photographs. Giles knew what they showed. The man had shown them all to Giles first. The bastard had been human, so Giles hadn’t been able to kill him. Instead, he’d endured the humiliation for every second the man had wanted to draw it out.

And now his Slayer hadn’t rung him or dropped by. Had she looked, despite her promise? Or was it just coincidence, and she’d simply forgotten about him again as she had so often this year? He had no idea.

Giles damned himself, his fetishes, every fool thing his willful cock had ever led him to do. Go to bed with Ethan. Raise demons. Seduce Olivia with lies. Hire that woman. Role-play with that woman. It had almost been worth it. Almost. To taste that release one more time. To be taken out of himself, purified, drained to serenity. Those moments of anticipation, feeling the bonds tight at his wrists and ankles, tugging at them and knowing himself helpless, the breathless wait for what would happen next, for the first touch of a merciless hand on him… God.

It wasn’t going to happen again. He had to resign himself. The risk was too great. He was known as the Slayer’s Watcher, here and in Los Angeles. There was no way he could find someone. It would be himself and his left hand, alone in his bed.

He wanted it worse than ever now that he knew he couldn’t have it. Giles had a gulp of whisky and swore under his breath, deeply.

Someone knocked on his door. He twitched up from his armchair to answer it, but it opened before he finished standing. Buffy. She turned, closed it, and locked it. She stepped into his little living room area. She was wearing engineer boots and a leather jacket. Full Slayer mode, fierce and focused. Deadly and attractive. But the expression on her face was stormy.

Giles picked up his tumbler and had another gulp of whisky. Apparently the other shoe had dropped.

“Giles. Watcher.” Buffy let her messenger bag slide to the floor.

“G-good evening, Buffy. What brings you here?” Disingenuous, pathetic.

“I have a problem. I think I know the solution, but I definitely have a problem.”

“Oh! Er. What sort of…” Giles trailed off. She had advanced until she was standing in front of his fireplace.

“Stand up.”

Giles had another pull of the whisky. What the hell was she up to?

She took the glass from him and sniffed it. She had a sip, shrugged, then put it on the mantel. “I believe I gave you an order, Watcher.”

“Buffy, I–”

Stand up.

Giles stood.

He thought about asking her again what was going on, but saw the look in her eye and decided against it. He stood watching her. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. His palms were wet. He rubbed them against his jeans. He tried to breathe. When she’d snapped out those words, it had gone straight to his cock. This was not the time to be dizzy with lust for his Slayer. Again.

Buffy regarded him silently. She had another taste of his whisky. One booted foot was on the raised hearth. She was wearing black jeans. Tight jeans. Oh, God.

“Giles. We need to talk. About what was in those photographs.”

“I asked you not to look at them!” Giles flushed red. Mercifully, his arousal faded.

“Well, I did. And I read the letter that came with them.”

Giles had no idea what was in that letter, but whatever it had been, it had angered Buffy. Angered? Not exactly. The expression on her face was something else. Something far more frightening to him. She was intent, though to what purpose he could not guess. On humiliating him further?

Giles turned away. His shoulders were tight. Might as well get it over with. “Say what you need to say to me.”

“Giles. Relax.”

He snapped. “Why in sodding hell would I relax?

Buffy took his arm and spun him around roughly to face her. “Giles. Calm down.” She gave him a few moments, then said, “It’s perfectly all right to want those things. What isn’t all right is the way you got them. You laid yourself open to blackmail. You went to somebody else. You should have come to me.”

Giles opened his mouth to protest, but found himself speechless. Eventually he sputtered out, “Buffy, don’t be absurd.”

Buffy advanced on him. He backed until he was against the wall beside his fireplace. She stood inches away. He could smell her leather jacket, the musky perfume she wore. He was half-hard again. His cock admitted what he wanted, even when he couldn’t. Damnable fool.

“I’ve read Watcher diaries, Giles. I know what our predecessors got up to. We wouldn’t be the first, or the last.”

“You can’t want–”

“But I do want. I want you. And I know that you want me.”

“I don’t–”

“Don’t lie to me. I know you do. You called her Slayer.”

Giles felt his world falling in on itself. Buffy’s gaze on him was the only stable thing around him. He clung to it. She knew, and she was here, and she was… She wanted him? He flattened his hands against the wall, to hold himself up.

“I won’t have you calling anybody else your Slayer, hear me? I’m your Slayer. I make you feel what you need to feel. I do those things to you. You’re my Watcher, understand? Mine. Not going to share you.”

“I haven’t been your Watcher for a year,” he whispered.

“Would you like to be my Watcher again?”

The shock of hope nearly brought him to his knees. “God. Buffy. You know I would.”

Buffy said, “So. You will be my Watcher. You will train me, teach me, translate for me. Sharpen my sword. All that. In exchange, I will be everything you need in private. Your Slayer. Your mistress.”

His mouth went dry, at the sound of that word from her lips. He fought to swallow. His mistress. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff. His Slayer was asking him to step off. No. He’d already stepped off. There was no going back on this conversation.

“An exchange,” said Giles. His voice was hoarse. “Buffy, do you understand what you’re offering me?”


“Have you, um, have you… done this before?”

“I don’t have a lot of practical experience. Just reading. But I do know that what you want and what I want are a match. We go together.”

She sighed. “I haven’t been able to find anybody either. So many guys are either wimps or too macho. Like Riley. Think he’s not a man if he’s not on top. I’ve had enough of that. I want an adult. Somebody who knows himself.”

Giles breathed out a nervous laugh. “I’m not sure I’m that. But I suspect I know myself better than your Riley does.”

He stared at her boots, at the worn and creased leather, and thought hard. He wanted to say yes. God, he wanted to say yes. She was everything he’d ever desired in women: strong, willful, impish, quick-witted, capable. She was pure power and grace. She was the Slayer. Could he let himself say yes?

What would happen if he said no? She needed him. Needed his skills. He knew that. He knew it would kill her, eventually, if they carried on this way, and she were further separated from him.

He had to accept. For her own sake. And if that was rationalization, so be it. Giles surrendered, all in a heap.

“I… I accept your offer.”

She shifted in place, sharply, as if preventing herself from moving to him.

“I will be your Watcher. And in exchange, you will, you will be…”

“Your mistress.”

“My mistress.” Giles whispered the last word.

She did move toward him then, stepping directly in front of him. He brought his head up and met her eyes. Solemn, intense, and pleased. She held out her hand to him, palm out. He pressed his hand against hers. “My Watcher.”

“My Slayer.”

She slipped her fingers between his and clasped his hand.

Giles reeled for a moment. The oath the Council had administered to him had been accompanied by lashings of stiff pomp and circumstance, but this simple exchange of words with his Slayer meant far more.

Buffy squeezed his hand. “We start tonight. I’ll tell you what I want from you, as your mistress.”

He swallowed, then nodded. “Buffy? Tomorrow. We’ll discuss what I require of you, as your Watcher.”

“Yes,” Buffy said. Giles bent his head and kissed her hand.


Buffy took his whisky glass and settled herself in his armchair. “So. Let’s talk.”

“Talk?” Giles felt a moment of mingled relief and disappointment. Did she not want to follow through immediately?

“I need to know what you want.”

“Oh. I, um.” Jenny had done this to him as well, make him talk about things he’d never said aloud to anybody. She’d said she had to know, if she were to give him what he needed. And if Giles were to do this right, he’d have to reveal himself as fully to Buffy. How would she react? He rubbed his hands against his jeans again. His palms were still damp. He felt almost queasy from nerves.

“On your knees. Now. Right here.” Buffy pointed.

He moved immediately to kneel at her feet, and folded his arms behind his back. He didn’t dream of disobeying. That voice of command came naturally to her, Giles thought. As naturally as submission came to him. Giles couldn’t believe he was doing this. His breath was coming fast. His chest felt tight. His head spun. He’d been half-hard since she’d ordered him to stand, and now this had taken him the rest of the way. He didn’t dare reach into his jeans to adjust himself to make it more comfortable.

She was studying him. He wondered what she saw. He knew what he saw in her. She had changed so much in the last year. She’d had lovers, had been betrayed, had glimpsed the world of adulthood. She was no longer the girl who refused her destiny. This older Buffy would meet it head on. So much older than she’d been. And she’d always been wise beyond her years. The gift and curse of the Slayers, that her life would be lived more intensely than the lives of ordinary girls. But, ah, a lovely light.

What would she be like in bed? What pleased her? What would she do to him? Giles wanted to know. Needed to know. Would know before the evening was through. He watched her watching him. His hands were not trembling only because they gripped his arms behind his back.

“Okay, Giles. Tell me all about yourself. How did you get started with this?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but it was difficult. He fixed his gaze on her boots. It was easier not to look at her. Giles still could not speak.

“Let’s start losing the armor. Take off your shoes and socks. And your sweater.”

Giles obeyed, and set them to the side, the jumper neatly folded. He returned to his kneeling position. It was easier to take off his clothes than to tell her his secrets.

“Talk,” she said. Commanded, rather. He twitched reflexively in response, and cleared his throat to obey.

“I’ve had fantasies about it since I first knew it was possible. But I mostly… the first lover who… it was Ethan.” He looked up at her anxiously. She hadn’t known about his bisexuality before this. She looked amused, and not surprised in the least.

“Giles. Relax.” She held out his glass of whisky to him. He kept his hands behind his back and let her feed him a few sips. “I figured out about Ethan. So, did you confess your fantasies to him?”

“No. He discovered it. He dripped candle wax on me when we were, ah, having sex. By accident. He was trying to move the thing out of the way. And I didn’t react the way he expected.”

“Where did it land?”

“My chest. Just here.” Giles rested two fingers below his collarbone.

“What did it feel like?”

“Surprised me. Hurt, but felt so bloody good. All mixed up with how turned on I was. Ethan took one look at me and did it again. He pinned me down.”

He remembered that moment: his involuntary moan, and Ethan’s startled eyes meeting his. Then the intent look on Ethan’s face as he did it again while Giles held himself as still as he could. The hot wax-spatter on his chest, his almost wild excitement at the pain, Ethan’s hand on his throat holding him in place. Ethan’s delight in the discovery, and the savagely methodical manner in which he explored it over the following days. They hadn’t talked about it at all. Ethan had silently acted, and Giles silently submitted.

“That guy pinned you?”

Giles smiled briefly. “I was much scrawnier at the time. And I wanted to be pinned. So he was my first.”

“Have you been with a lot of men?”

“A few. Mostly not in, ah, this sort of relationship. I tend to be dominant with men, Ethan aside. And submissive with women. I… well, I have a theory about that.” He looked away from her, at her boots on the rug next to him. She nudged his knee, gently, with a boot.

“It’s, um, the Watcher training. They condition us, I’m fairly certain, from a young age. To admire power in women. Physical power. Fighting prowess. Everything the Slayer is. And long to serve it. To… bluntly, to worship our Slayers.”

“Aha,” said Buffy, very quietly. “That’s why your fantasy was to call the dominatrix Slayer.”

Giles flushed again. He couldn’t look at her.

“There is no shame here, Giles. I’m happy you want that. I’m going to give it to you for real.”

“Thank you,” he said. A flood of strong emotion that he couldn’t name welled up in him, and he bent to kiss her boot. He lingered for a moment, then her hand was on the back of his neck, pressing him down, gripping hard. He sighed in satisfaction. His worries that she would be tentative because of inexperience faded. She released him. He knelt up again, cautiously, and met her eyes. He saw approval there. She liked the little gestures, then. He would be careful to please her with them.

“Take off your shirt,” she said. Giles immediately pulled it over his head and folded it. She was slowly stripping him bare. Oddly, more slowly than he would have, if he were in charge. He’d be naked already. Jenny had always said he needed to learn patience.

“What made you buy it from someone?”

“Desperation. It had been so long, I… I couldn’t find anyone. Either they got frightened off by the Hellmouth, or they were, were, were killed by it. Jenny-- I couldn’t risk that again. Getting involved with someone seemed… impossible. But I wanted the sensations. I thought… I thought it could be safe.”

She reached out, then, and stroked his face. Giles closed his eyes and opened himself to the touch, to her wordless sympathy and affection.

She gave him another sip of whisky. It was helping. She coaxed it all out of him like that, gradually. A taste of whisky, a question, another secret yielded. It helped that he’d done this before, with Jenny, who’d taught him words for some of his more intense desires. It all came out. The jolt of pleasure he felt when his lover took command of him. The sweet terror of helplessness. The need to have control stripped from him, so that he could be carried beyond himself, let himself feel. His tangled emotions about pain: need, craving, fear. The floating euphoria of the trance-state. The build to breaking point, when he at last surrendered himself to his mistress’ will, when he at last let go of himself.

Catharsis, he said to her, and watched her anxiously to see if she understood. She nodded, serious and respectful as she’d been all evening. He recognized the expression on her face. She was thinking deeply, her gaze somewhere over his head. She refocused and smiled at him.

“I can give you what you need,” she said.

God, may it be so.

She fed him the last of the whisky. He wasn’t drunk, not in the least, but he was smoothed out, damped down by it. He might have fled his own flat in terror without it. He wished he’d had the courage to ask her to bind him immediately.

Buffy stood and carried the tumbler to the kitchen. Giles remained where he was, on his knees, because she had not given him leave to stand. He heard her moving around, opening the refrigerator. She returned with a bottle of spring water. She sat in his armchair again and drank a little. She didn’t offer him any.

“Okay. Next. What don’t you like?”

Giles sighed. This part of the catechism was more frightening. Ethan would ask him what he didn’t like, and then do exactly that. Buffy, he reminded himself, was no Ethan. “I don’t like humiliation. Ethan used to like to do that to me, but I… I like being valued.”

“Valued for the gift you give to your top, of your body. Your pain and compliance.”

Giles was a little surprised she understood this. “Yes, exactly. As I value the gift my mistress gives me, of her attention and her, her, her–” Giles broke off. He didn’t have a word to use other than “love”, and he didn’t want to bring that up with Buffy yet.

There were a few more things he couldn’t abide, not even to please a demanding top, but those were easily dismissed by Buffy as uninteresting to her as well. At last she was satisfied. She leaned forward, focused on him with new intensity. His mouth went dry again at her expression. Her hand would be on him soon.

“Right,” she said. “I think that’s enough talk. It’s time to give you a taste of that helplessness.”


“Take off your belt and give it to me,” Buffy said.

Giles obeyed. She took it from him and examined it as if considering what to do next. “Buffy? May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“If you, if you wish to, to bind me, I have some gear you might find useful.”

“Bring it to me.”

Giles rose smoothly to his feet and padded up the stairs to his loft. It was all in the back of his clothes closet. He came down with a cardboard box. He’d stored the gear when Jenny had died, and it had been a long time before he’d been ready to experience those sensations with somebody else. And then he’d been fool enough to think a professional would be discreet. He laid the box at Buffy’s feet and returned to his knees. It was rather a lot; some of Jenny’s equipment had been in his flat when she’d died, and he’d had no idea how to return it to her family without enduring an agonizing conversation.

Buffy opened them and began removing the contents. New tools set at the ready for the Slayer, each a weapon to be evaluated solemnly.

Several riding crops. A leather flogger. A horsehair whip. A paddle. Wrist and ankle cuffs in heavy black leather. Carabiners and quick releases. Rope and chain. Nipple clamps. A velvet bag with a selection of cock rings in it, including a thick metal ring that he’d loved wearing. Sometimes the sensation of it snug and heavy around his cock and balls had been the only thing making Snyder’s staff meetings bearable.

A few boxes with plugs, some silicone, some metal. Buffy examined each of them carefully, then returned them to their boxes.

And a wide leather collar with a buckle and rings. The first leather he’d ever owned. Or been owned with. Ethan had come home with it, probably stolen, the day after he’d discovered that his friend liked it rough. Giles recalled the feeling of it around his neck, buckled tight. He had worn it through some of the most intense experiences of his life. The leather had softened with age and use, but it was still solid. Heavy. He licked his lips.

Buffy was watching him. “Do you want to wear this?”

“God, yes. Forgive me, that is, if it pleases you.”

Buffy smiled at him. “I like knowing you’re eager. So long as you’re not pushy, that’s fine.”

She came around behind him and wrapped it around his neck. As he’d hoped, she pulled it snug, so he felt it. He felt her tuck the buckle end through and moaned. She tugged at it again. Giles arched his back in response. She held him firmly, one hand on his collar, one around his chest. She slid her hand down to rest above his navel.

“Are you hard under those jeans?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You like this, don’t you.” She pulled at the collar again.

“Yes. Oh, God. So much.”

“This will be our sign, then. When you’re wearing this, you’re mine.”

She undid the top button of his jeans and slipped her hand down inside, over his belly. Her fingers brushed down, tantalizing him. She still had a hand on his collar, pulling him back against her. Giles could feel her breasts pressed against his back, her breath on his neck, her knees between his. She was small. Deceptively small. She could hold him in place effortlessly if he decided to struggle.

Giles melted. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Please. Take me. Do what you want with me. Anything. Please.” He rocked his hips, trying to coax her into touching him. Those hands, Slayer-hot, on his skin, so close to where he burned.

She pulled her hand away. He whimpered in dismay, but a moment later she had her hand on him, cupping him through the jeans. Squeezing. He groaned and thrust into her hand. Then it was gone again and she was standing, pulling him up with her with that amazing strength. The strength that made him dizzy.

She released him and returned to the armchair. He remained where she’d left him, his arms still folded behind his back. She’d given him no specific orders, but already he knew she liked the little reminders, the little cues in his bearing. He would gladly give them to her, teach her what she might wish to demand from other lovers.

“Jeans off,” she said.

Giles unbuttoned his jeans and slid them off. He folded and added them to the little pile of his clothing. His modesty. His reservations. His decorum. The little pile of everything he’d been told about how to behave with his Slayer, how to treat her, how to manage her. As if he’d ever managed Buffy. She’d owned him from the first. They’d raised him to love her, and keep her alive, and serve her, and here he was. Standing before her nearly nude, hands behind his back, head down, the proof of his devotion and service tenting out his boxers.

“The rest of it. Shorts off too.”

Giles hid a little smile when he turned to add his underwear to his discarded armor. The first sign of impatience in his Slayer.

He turned back to her and clasped his hands behind his back. Her eyes were on his cock. He hoped she liked what she saw. Most of his lovers had. He was suddenly self-conscious. She’d been with beautiful men-- the sculptured undead Angel, and now the soldier boy with his artificial strength. Young men, or men with the appearance of youth, anyway. Not his all-too-human middle age.

Before his worry could spin into fear, she was speaking again. “Kneel. Spread your legs. Wider.”

He obeyed. This, this he loved. Waiting on his knees before his lover. Awaiting her pleasure.

“So beautiful,” she said, quietly, as if to herself. She was still looking at his cock. Then, to him she said, “There are some things I want to do with you tonight. I want your consent first.”

Giles almost laughed, but fortunately controlled himself. He was naked, on his knees, aching for her hand on him, and she wanted to discuss consent. Jenny had made a big fuss over that as well. Ethan had simply done to him what he’d wanted.

“Buffy. Anything you want. I… What do you desire of me?”

She wanted to put him in bondage. She wanted to whip him, to hurt him, to use all his toys on him. She wanted to take him to bed and give him pleasure. She would ask before she drew blood. Ask before she left permanent marks. Ask before she involved anyone else. Simple things. What he had expected. It had all been done to him before.

Giles inclined his head and consented. He was disinclined to deny his Slayer anything she asked for, even when she demanded the right to leave visible marks on him tonight. Giles consented to that with a shaky voice, more from the thought of what she’d do to him than from the idea of others knowing. Then he thought about how long it had been since he’d flaunted the evidence of a lover. He’d required-- requested, rather-- that Jenny not leave any traces that would excite the interest of the students. Or any school personnel. He had no such restrictions on him now.

Tomorrow, when he went out, everyone would know he had a lover.

“Hmm, you like that idea,” Buffy said. She had a wicked grin on her face. “I do too. But I have something serious to take care of tonight. I need to punish you for not coming to me first.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” he whispered.

“I’ll let you decide part of your punishment. Which of these do you want me to use on you?” She indicated the whips laid out on his coffee table.

Giles opened his mouth, but was unable to speak for a moment. She wanted him to choose. Not just consent to the pain, but choose how it would be given to him. Jenny had never done this to him. Clever. Buffy would not be satisfied with a minor punishment, a wrist-slap. Not if she was the mistress he wished her to be. He thought fast.

“I don’t have a cane. That would be traditional. Six of the best. Absent that… The riding crop, please, Buffy. On my back and thighs. Hard enough that I’ll be reminded every time I sit down for days.”

“Hard enough to draw blood?”

Giles swallowed. “If, if it pleases you.”

She smiled, and this time it was a feral smile. Frightening. “I like your plan. Hard enough so you’ll feel it for days. And I’ll draw blood with the last stripe. All right?”

Giles consented. His mouth was dry. He’d been in this position before. Jenny had whipped him that much, once. The memory was precious. He hated the suffering while he was in the midst of it, but the rush, the rush would be worth it. The flood of release afterward. He craved it, but could not give himself that sensation. He needed a merciless hand on him. Ethan, Jenny, and now Buffy.

“Let’s begin,” Buffy said to him, and stood up. Giles squeezed his eyes shut. He heard her leather jacket hit the floor, then her quiet step behind him.


Buffy walked slowly around her Watcher, her new lover. He was completely naked save for the collar. He was on his knees, his thighs well-spread. His arms were folded behind his back. His eyes were closed tight. His chest and face were flushed, and he was breathing hard. No wonder. He was as hard as Buffy had ever seen a man get. His cock was leaking.

Giles looked different out of his clothes. Without the baggy sweaters, or the layers of suit-coat and vest and shirt, he was a man. Not a textbook with arms. A man, with hair on his chest and more on his stomach, and a little bit at the very bottom of his spine. A handsome man. That jaw was magnificent.

Buffy thought it was time to touch him. She rested her hands on his shoulders. He flinched under her, then calmed himself. She ran her hands over those shoulders, feeling the surprising muscle. Down his back, over his glutes. She spread those with her hands and bent to look at his ass. Then around to his front. He met her eyes for a moment, then cast his gaze down. She pinched his nipples, hard, and held on. He gasped and moaned and arched his back. He moved into her hands, not away.

She released him. He held his position, offering his chest to her. She stroked her thumbs over his cheekbones. He closed his eyes again. She slipped two fingers into his mouth and he sucked eagerly. It was everything Buffy had dreamed. A pliant, sensitive submissive, someone she respected deeply, someone whose surrender was valuable. A strong man, willingly going to his knees for her. She had to be worthy of him. Keep her game up.

While Giles sucked on her fingers, she considered her next move. She’d come prepared to wing it and use his belt on him. All this gear was an unexpected bonus. She definitely wanted to hurt him tonight. Punishment was only part of it, she knew. She’d have had to hurt him anyway, to make his new status clear to him, and to give him what he craved. And for her own pleasure, of course. She was hot to see his face and hear him cry out. And see the traces she would leave on his skin.

First, a cock ring. Buffy chose a wide leather ring, and snapped it on tight. Giles whimpered when she touched his cock. It was big, far bigger than Riley or Parker had been. It was like Angel’s, who’d been more unusual than she’d realized. It felt nice, hot and smooth, hard below the skin. She played with his foreskin. Riley didn’t have one, and she hadn’t had the chance to explore Angel’s. It was sensitive, apparently. Giles was tense under her hands as she stroked him, trembling and tight and obviously struggling not to move. He was making the most wonderful noises, soft groans and little wordless pleas.

Buffy let go. His hips moved, thrusting into air, then he managed to get himself back under control. It was going to be fun working him to a state where he forgot to do that. Or didn’t want to any more.

Next, cuffs for his ankles and wrists. Buffy chose the wrist gauntlets for him. He looked good in them. He’d probably look good in a harness as well. He shook a little as she buckled the cuffs tight. Sensation overload? She paused to stroke his hair, calm him down.

She lifted him to his feet again, since that had made him groan and swear under his breath before. She grabbed a few loops of rope, then led him upstairs to his loft.

Buffy bet that she wouldn’t have to improvise here. Giles would probably have a bedroom all prepared for play. And she wasn’t disappointed: there were eye bolts at top and bottom of each post of his four-poster, in discreet black. Eyebolts were also spaced along the rail at the foot. Buffy thought for a moment, then bound him spread-eagled to the posts at the foot of the bed, facing in. She pulled the ropes taut, so he had no play at all. She tied the knots so all she need do was pull the tag to release him. He’d taught her those knots.

She grinned, and took a step back to look at him. Magnificent. All stretched out and helpless. The muscles in his back and arms bunched. He was testing his bonds.

“Okay?” she asked him. He nodded, though his legs were spread wide enough that it had to be a little uncomfortable.

She laid the riding crop across the bed, where he could see it, and left him there. She went downstairs and shut up the apartment for the night. She put the whips back into the box, with the exception of the flogger. She tucked that into the waistband of her jeans, in the small of her back. She snagged another bottle of water. Giles was sweating a lot, which meant he’d need water.

When she went upstairs again she found him trembling in his bonds. She pulled off her boots and climbed onto the bed to hold him tight. “You okay, Giles?”

“Yes. God. I just… can’t believe it’s really happening. Wanted this so much. Can’t believe you want it.”

“Believe it. You are so amazingly sexy like this. I had no idea. Look at you. So hard. So helpless.”

Buffy caressed his face and kissed his mouth for the first time. He returned the kiss eagerly, opening his mouth and allowing her in. He whispered her name and kissed her again. He was a pleasure to kiss. He tasted like the whisky. He smelled like leather and bay leaves and tea. He licked her lips and sighed and kissed along her jaw. God, she could do this all night. Someday soon she would.

Buffy pulled away. “More of that later, mister. Right now we have the matter of your whipping to attend to.” She picked up the riding crop and showed it to him. His face changed. Fear and craving at once, she thought.

She put the crop back on the bed and slid down. The guy was so magnificent out of his clothes. She laid a hand on his ass. There ought to be a law against him wearing clothes and covering this up. Buffy grinned to herself. She could make a law like that, maybe, for nights when they were alone.

She gave him one last caress down his back and took the flogger out of her belt. She swished it at the air experimentally a few times, getting the feel of it. The Slayer skills were a big help here: she had absolute confidence in her ability to swing this thing exactly as hard as she wanted to, and hit exactly what she wanted. The question was how much Giles wanted. Her plan was to start slow, build, and watch his reactions. And then take him one notch further than he thought he wanted to go.

She knew his apartment walls were thick. Nobody had ever complained about demon fights going on inside. She wanted to hear him.

On a wicked impulse, she aimed a blow at the bedpost. The flogger tails snapped, and Giles’ whole body jumped. He held himself tense, then slowly relaxed. Buffy smacked the bedpost again. He flinched again. Before he could relax this time, she swung again, this time at his ass. A very light stroke.

“What–” he said.

She swung again, a little harder. “I don’t need any questions from you right now, Watcher.”

She got into a rhythm with it. She wasn’t hitting him hard, just enough to get his attention and keep it. Warm him up everywhere she intended to mark him with the riding crop. He’d gone silent and still after her warning, but he was definitely breathing harder. And yes, finally a gasp from him. When his gasps had built into moans, she stopped.

She caressed his ass. It was hot under her hands. Hot and reddened and sensitive, judging by how Giles flinched when she touched him. Perfect. While she was there, she took advantage of the easy access to his cock and balls. She experimented with squeezing to see how he reacted. Beautifully: he was moaning. She paused to run a fingertip around his entrance. He made more sounds; the man was entirely alive and sensitive to everything she did. It would be neat to penetrate him, open him and plug him up. He’d confessed he loved being fucked. Next session, maybe. There was plenty of time, and no reason to give him everything he wanted at once. Maybe she’d make him beg for it.

She went around and climbed onto the bed to check on him.

“Buffy,” he said, in a husky voice. His face was dreamy. He was sweating freely. She offered him the water bottle again. He took a sip, then shook his head.

“Doing okay?”

“Oh, God, I…”

“Did you like that?”

Eyes closed for a moment, then a nod. “Yes.”

“Good. Because you’re about to get more.”

“Oh, God.”

“You’re going to scream for me. Mmm, you look scared. Good. Afterwards I’m going to let you go down on me. Would you like that?”

Giles nodded again, frantically. “Oh, God, please, yes, my Slayer.”

Buffy broke it off and got down off the bed. She took the riding crop this time. Time for the main act. She shifted her grip on the handle and considered his ass. She had to be careful now; reading wasn’t the same as practical experience here. She didn’t want to injure him by accidentally using Slayer strength. She’d save the savagery for the last blow. How many? Ten. Spaced out evenly, to make nice stripes. Then the last right across his butt.

Buffy rubbed the crop against Giles’s legs for a moment, then flicked her wrist. The crop whistled, and it made a wonderful smack when it hit his ass. Giles went very still and tense. Buffy examined the welt closely, pressing at it with her fingers. It was dark red. She backed off a little and aimed for just below the first one. Giles jumped and then was still. She did it again, a little harder, and he made a sound. Not hard enough, she guessed. A little harder for the next one. This sort of fine control was trivial for the Slayer: it was a little game to line them up and space them perfectly, while Giles moaned and writhed and pulled at his bonds. She waited for him to come still, then struck again.

After the fifth, she checked on him. He was breathing in gasps and there were tears on his face. She rested her hand against his cheek, and he pushed his face into it.

“Don’t fight it,” she said to him. “Yield to it.”

He took another deep breath.

“Scared?” He nodded. “Trust me. You have to let go and trust me.”

“I do,” he said. His voice was husky and whispery. He turned his head and kissed her palm. Buffy kissed his mouth again. This time he tasted salty.

Buffy slipped around behind him and caressed his ass again. It was very hot under her hands now. He whimpered a little when she scratched at the welts with her fingernail.

She stepped back, and with no warning landed blow number six across his buttocks, harder than before. He cried out and pulled hard enough at his bonds to make the bed creak. Perfect. She gave him four more just as hard, moving down until the last was across the middle of his thighs. He moaned and writhed with each one. His backside was marked up beautifully.

And now the final blow. Buffy put a little Slayer into that one. Whistle, crack, and that was definitely a choked-back scream, followed by whimpering. She had indeed drawn blood. Buffy was smug. Her first whipping had gone well.

Buffy moved back onto the bed, where she could see his face. More tears. He was flushed, and breathing hard. His chest and sides were dripping with sweat. She pushed his wet hair off his forehead, tenderly. She held the crop to his lips and he kissed it.

Buffy lifted his chin so he met her eyes. “You’re mine now. If you need anything, you come to me and ask for it. I’ll give it to you. Anything, Watcher. Understood?”

“Understood, my Slayer. Thank you.” His voice was strained, and he was sagging against the ropes. Time to let him down. And besides, Buffy as hot as she’d ever been in her life. Hot and wet and open, all wrapped up in her jeans. She knew what she wanted from Giles next.


Buffy released Giles from the ropes. He slumped over the bedrail, then made an effort and stood up straight. He put his hands behind his back again, without being prompted. He’d been excellent all evening, keeping himself in submissive postures and making sweet gestures like kissing her boots, even now when he had just endured a whipping. Buffy felt a wave of affection for him rush over her. Such courage he’d shown, letting her do this to him. Trusting her so much, when she’d been so erratic before.

She slipped an arm around his waist and helped him over to the bed. She arranged him on his side curled around her with his head in her lap. She stroked his hair and face. He looked drained but serene, his eyes heavy-lidded. She fed him water in slow sips. He drank and sighed and wrapped his arms around her legs.

“How you doing? How do you feel?”

His voice was a little slurry when he answered. “Hurts. 'Ll hurt for days. So good, I feel so good. So-- oh, yeah, please, oh…”

She had taken his erection in hand and was caressing him slowly. He closed his eyes and thrust into her hand, almost involuntarily. The control she’d seen him display earlier had been stripped from him, possibly by the pain, possibly by the semi-trance he was in. Endorphin haze. He made little sounds, soft groans, more pleas to her to touch him.

Time for pleasure for him, now. And for her.

“Would you like to come tonight?”

His hand tightened on her knee. “Please, yes, Buffy, please, God, wanna come for you.”

“You will, because you have been so good. But not until I tell you you may. Understood?”

“Understood, my Slayer.” He kissed her leg where his face rested.

She cupped his balls, gave them a good squeeze, then released him. He whimpered in protest and opened his eyes. “On the floor, please. On your knees.”

Giles shook himself and came out of his haze a little. Not fully. He was in a state Buffy had never imagined him in, mind on hold for the demands of his body. He knelt on the floor and spread his knees wide without being asked, but his face was still transformed by pleasure and desire and strain. His cock was red, urgently erect between those spread thighs. Buffy wondered which demand was foremost in his mind: the darkening stripes across his buttocks, or that cock? Or were they all mixed up?

He was fully alert now and watching her. He licked his lips again, a signal to Buffy that something in front of him was desirable. Her. It had to be her. Buffy stood, and removed her shirt. Yes, it was her. He was riveted, mouth a little open, body shifting forward slightly.

Buffy stripped slowly, carefully, methodically. She knew she looked good, and knew that Giles would like her tone, all the muscle that said she was his deadly Slayer. And indeed he watched her eagerly, moaning a little as she revealed his goddess to him. At the last she turned her back on Giles and bent to remove her panties. He groaned behind her and muttered something in that husky voice. She turned to him.

“What was that?”

His gaze moved everywhere on her, returning again and again to her sex. “So beautiful. You said I could— you said you’d let me-- God, want to so much. Please? Let me taste you?”

Buffy smiled down at him and ran her fingers through his hair. “Yeah, you can. Make me happy. Make me want to let you do this again.”

She sat on the edge of his bed, heels on the edge of the frame. She tugged Giles over to kneel before her.

“How should I… may I use my hands?”

“Use your imagination. Do your best. Worship me.”

“God, yes, Buffy, I will, I do.”

Giles kissed her bare feet, one at a time, on the instep. He slid his hands up her legs, rubbed his face against the inside of her knees. He parted her thighs gently, easing her open. His avid gaze did not move from her sex. Buffy leaned back on her elbows and watched his face. This didn’t always work for Buffy. Sometimes she was slow to respond to it. But she’d let him have fun, let him get her all excited.

He kissed the inside of her knee, then brushed his lips over the other knee. He switched from left to right, slowly moving up her thighs to her sex, kissing softly, flickering his tongue on her skin. His breath was hot and damp. Buffy felt herself open for him, and he hadn’t even touched her directly. He was breathing over her, brushing his hand over her mons. Was he ever going to lick her?

No! He was kissing up her belly, nuzzling her navel, rubbing his face against her. He stopped just below her breasts. He was leaning against her, his arms around her. His skin was hot against her belly and back. He kissed between her breasts, then looked up at her.

“May I?”

“Yeah,” she said, breathless.

He ran his tongue gently up her breast and licked around the aureole before closing his lips around her nipple. He sucked and licked. Buffy felt herself harden under his mouth. He moved his head to the other breast, and kissed it to arousal. Buffy cradled his head in her arms. His hair was damp under her hands. He looked up and met her eyes as he sucked. Buffy had never seen Giles look so happy as at that moment.

She pushed him gently down, and he released her to lick his way downward again, as slowly as he had made his way up. When he finally kissed her sex, she shook in a single hard spasm. Anticipation, shock, a thrill running from her sex out. He teased at her clitoris, tracing delicately from her opening up with a tongue-tip then moving away. Buffy moaned, wondered distantly if she should be that out of control, then decided she didn’t care. Because his tongue was tracing around her again, and she knew it wasn’t going to be a matter of if, but how many times. She let her head fall back. Let herself make noise for him as he teased her again and again.

He thrust his tongue into her, then withdrew. Buffy moaned in protest, then had to bite it back because he’d slid a finger into her and was sucking her clit gently and flickering his tongue over her, and it was already building in her, already inevitable. The wave broke over her, and she cried out and shuddered around him. He eased off and kissed her soothingly. Then just when the waters had receded, he slid another finger into her and licked hard, once, twice, and she was shuddering again. He would have done it a third time, but she pulled herself together enough to stop him with a hand in his hair.

He leaned his head against her thigh and smiled up at her. His face glistened with moisture, with sweat and her juices. He didn’t seem to care. He looked almost smug. Next time she’d tie his hands behind his back, make him work harder. But for now, Buffy was happy she hadn’t. He knew what to do with the privilege, how to use those fingers.

“Nice,” she told him. Her voice was unsteady.

“Thank you, my Slayer,” he said, still with that faintly smug expression.

Her hands were trembling from her orgasms, but she had enough control of her body to lift him to his feet again and push him back onto the bed. He winced when his backside met the bedsheets; no more smug look. She clipped his wrists together, then ran a loop of rope through another one of those convenient eyebolts. Giles’ bed was serious. Seriously convenient. Which was the point. He must have done this a whole lot with Miss Calendar, Buffy realized. Okay, not the time to think about that. Instead, think about Giles, all spread out underneath her, legs apart, panting, rocking his hips in an effort to entice her, to brush himself against her.

Or maybe it was just that he was completely out of control now that she’d bound him again. It was amazing. Buffy sat back on her heels and stroked a hand over his thighs and watched him writhe. She shifted to kneel between his thighs and run her hands up his flanks, over his chest, and back down. Slow soothing massage. He settled under her hands.

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetie. Relax. I’ve got you. Yeah, like that.”

Buffy took a cue from him, and kissed her way slowly up his legs to where his cock lay along his belly. She hovered there for a moment, not touching him. Giles groaned. He’d lifted his head and was watching her. Next time she’d blindfold him and surprise him.

She licked him from root to tip. Giles bucked, so she did it again. Licked him all over until he was moaning non-stop, and then pulled away. She straddled him and took his cock in her hand, positioned it just so. Let the tip slide inside. Another little shock-shiver of anticipation as it slid in, her body gathering itself for pleasure to come. Giles thrust his hips up, trying to push himself all the way inside. Buffy rose and stayed just beyond him, tantalizing him.

“Hold still,” she said. Giles froze in place.

She lowered herself onto him slowly, as slowly as she could. He filled her wonderfully, stretching her just enough. He held himself still, as ordered, but it was a near thing. His eyes were closed and his lips were moving, repeating something under his breath that Buffy couldn’t catch.

He was all the way inside now. It was good, so good. Buffy moved over him slowly, until the urgency built and she had to go faster, had to seek the finish. One hand on his chest, pinching his nipple, one hand on herself, circling, Giles’s cock moving inside her-- buffy felt the wave rising rising again, cresting, taking her and carrying her.

When she could think again, she looked down at her Watcher. Giles was still hard and thrusting inside her. His face was desperate.

“Please,” he said, “God, please, have mercy. I can’t–”

“Go ahead, Giles. Come now.” She reached down to where their bodies joined and flicked the cock ring open. Giles thrust up under her. She moved down to meet him, and he was coming, bucking and gasping and crying out her name and swearing. His face was everything she’d wanted to see: pained, ecstatic, wild, completely out of control. When he was still again, she stretched herself out on top of him, head on his chest. He softened inside her. He was sweaty and rumpled and flushed all over. About as un-stuffy as a man could be.

Buffy rolled off him and undid his cuffs. Giles flexed his arms and legs and groaned. He sat up and found the water bottle and drank. Buffy reclined on her side and watched him. He splashed some of the water on his face, then drained it dry.

“You okay?”

“Mmm.” He wrapped his arms around her and burrowed his face into her shoulder.

“That was what you needed?”

“Perfect, my Slayer. Thank you.” His voice was a mumble against her. Buffy realized he was already more than halfway asleep. Well, she couldn’t blame him.

That had been good. More work than she’d realized it would be, but it had been satisfying work. Giles’ face, his cries, the way he’d writhed under her blows: it had been amazing and exciting. Better than she’d expected. The thrill of having so much power over somebody else, of knowing that somebody else had granted her that power. And then the feeling afterward that she’d done right by him, and taken him where he’d needed to be taken. This was good. This was what she wanted.

Buffy wrapped a hand around her Watcher’s collar, and fell asleep.


Giles woke slowly. He was relaxed and at peace. He was aware first of sensation: the weight of someone’s body sprawled over his back, a delicious burn across his backside and thighs that he hadn’t felt in ages. Then scent, the smell of a woman on his face and hands. He came fully awake, and remembered whose weight it was across him, in whose body he’d been allowed to spend himself, whose hand had granted him those welts. That hand was moving idly across them now, caressing him. She’d left the collar on him all night. Gratifying. He moaned, softly, to let her know he was awake. He spread his legs further, to make himself more accessible to her, but otherwise held himself still. As still as he could, given the urge to move, to rock his hips. To be inside her again.

She’d been glorious.

Her weight left him, and he felt the bed shift as she moved. She settled between his knees. “You look amazing. The whip marks. My marks on you.”

Giles turned a little on the bed and looked back at her. “It was a privilege to be marked by you,” he said.

Her hand rested on his buttocks. “I broke the skin in two places,” Buffy said. “Not very much. Scabbed over already.”

Giles shivered. That last blow… he’d already been floating free on waves of pain when she’d landed that. If she’d asked him, he’d have begged her not to. But that was why he didn’t leave it up to himself.

“So a cane would have been better, huh?”

“Traditional. And it feels… Well. Good. Leaves beautiful stripes.”

“Hmm. I’d like to see that, because these are pretty great. They’re really dark where I hit you harder.” She pressed at his bruised thighs again. Giles breathed in shakily. It hurt. Not urgently, not unbearably. Enough that he would be constantly aware of it for a couple of days. Constantly aware that he had a mistress now. He shivered again, this time in anticipation.

She tugged gently at his collar. “Turn over.”

His backside was not happy to be pressed against anything, not even his smooth sheets. Giles winced. He’d be controlling that wince for days. Exactly what he’d wanted. Buffy was watching him intently, he realized. Best to let her know how good she’d made him feel.

“Thank you,” he said, putting all of himself into the words. Her face lit up.

“When would you like to do this again?” she said.

“That extreme? I, ah–”

“That was a special occasion. I mean, lighter play.” She ran two fingers around his nipples, as if to demonstrate what she meant by lighter.

“Buffy, any time. I am yours now. Your Watcher, your lover, any time you need me in either role.”

“For more vanilla stuff, too?” She sounded more tentative.

Giles smiled up at her. “It would be a pleasure.”

She hadn’t mentioned whether she was still with Riley or not. Giles assumed he would find out. Exclusivity did not matter to him, at least not sexually. It was far more important to him that she not train with the Initiative. And he would use his new rights as her Watcher to demand that, later. When they talked about what he wanted from her.

She unbuckled his collar and set it on the nightstand. Giles rubbed at his neck.

“You miss it?”


“Here,” she said. “A present.” She kissed his neck, over the carotid, where a vampire would feed. Over his pulse. Then she shocked him by biting. He cried out and dug his fists into the sheets, struggling to keep himself motionless under her. His cock hardened; so predictable it was. When she released him he was frozen for a moment, wondering from the sting if she’d drawn blood. Then he snarled and lunged up. Caught her by surprise and pinned her down. She laughed in delight and let him hold her down, let him penetrate her, let him drive hard. Wrapped her legs around him and drew him in deep.

Giles rode her hard and fast, chasing his release single-mindedly. He felt her shudder around him once, twice, before he found what he sought. He cried out again and lost himself in her. He fell back beside her afterward, breathless and laughing.

“I should punish you for that,” Buffy said, but he could hear that she was laughing as well.

“It will have been worth it,” Giles said. He tugged her closer, and she snuggled into his shoulder. He felt wonderful. Relaxed, alive. Happy.

“You’re giggly,” Buffy said. “Never seen you giggly. Or so happy.”

He petted her hair. “M’always like this afterward.”

“I like it. Nice not to be all grim and Depeche Mode about it.”


“Never mind. Anyway. I don’t want you hiding that hickey, mister. No turtlenecks today.”

Giles touched the place on his neck gingerly. She hadn’t quite drawn blood, but he’d have an obvious bite mark. A woman’s bite. He shivered a third time. Marked, publicly and privately.

“As you wish. What do you want me to say when someone asks where I got it?”

“Be evasive. For now. Let’s keep this secret for a couple of days.”

Giles sat up, lifting Buffy with him. “Secret?”

“For a little. Riley, um–” She faltered.

Giles made a thoughtful sound. She was probably making this decision emotionally, not rationally. “We’ll talk about that today. Purely in tactical terms. When secrecy is useful. When it’s a liability. Come along, then. Shower, breakfast, and then we’ll start making you the Slayer again.”

She took his hand and allowed him to lead her from his bed. Their bed. Giles grinned, and shivered again. Anticipation was sweet.