Giles stroked his hand down Buffy’s back and let it come to rest on her waist. They’d been out to dinner, jacket and tie for Giles, little black dress and heels for Buffy. And if his hand on her backside was any judge, the dress and heels were all she had worn. She’d be wearing nothing at all soon enough. Though perhaps he’d require her to wear the heels when he whipped her. Yes, that would do wonderfully. Stretch her arms above her head, high enough that she’d need to be on her toes, that she’d lose her balance when she struggled. Show off those lovely legs.
“You’re plotting,” she said to him, and he smiled and held the car door for her.
Giles went round to his side of the BMW and got in. “Do you have any requests?” he said.
“The handcuffs,” Buffy said, instantly.
He’d expected that. Buffy liked the handcuffs. She liked that when she struggled they left dark bruises. She liked the riding crop, too, liked it when Giles bent her over his desk and striped her backside. He preferred not to mar that lovely skin, but to use the soft flogger on her, moving slowly, letting it build until all he need do was touch her, anywhere, to make her cry out.
The marks were always gone by morning anyway, no matter what he used on her.
He took the handcuffs from the glove box and fastened them around her wrists. Buffy sighed in satisfaction and rested her bound hands on his thigh and her head on his shoulder. They rode home like that.
He opened the car door for her and helped her out. She stood waiting, uncharacteristically demure. He unfastened her shoulder straps, unzipped the dress, and let it fall to the pavement around her feet. Indeed, bare save for her jewelry. Rings on her fingers and in her ears, a ring in her navel, a cross around her neck. Lovely, and utterly unconcerned to be bound and nude on the pavement before any who dared Sunnydale after dark.
She stepped gracefully away from the dress. He knelt to gather it up, paused to kiss her feet, to let his hands roam over her legs and up, between her thighs. He considered giving her the first orgasm of the night here, like this, on his knees. No. Not tonight. Tonight he’d make her wait.
He rose to his feet and offered her his arm. She took it with her prisoned hands and he walked her slowly to his flat.
There was a hook in the edge of the loft from which Giles had hung a chain. He clipped her handcuffs to it, reaching high over her head to stretch her out as he’d wished to.
Giles folded his jacket over the back of the couch with Buffy’s dress. He unknotted his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Undid his cuffs, rolled them up carefully. He did this slowly, with deliberation, standing where she could watch him prepare. Prepare to whip her.
“There’s one more thing,” she said to him.
“What is it?”
“Go until you draw blood. Then keep going just a little longer.”
Giles bent his head to her. He’d been expecting that request as well, though he’d been unsure when she’d make it. Hung in his weapons cabinet, next to the swords and stakes and riding crops, was a flogger with knotted lashes. He held it to her lips to kiss, then bent to kiss her himself, hands hard on her waist, the handle of the flogger pressed against her hip. Her face was serene. It always was, before and afterward. Never any fear, no matter what he did to her.
Giles kissed her until he’d had his fill and released her. She swayed on those high heels. Before she could steady herself he raised the flogger and struck.
The crack of leather on flesh, Buffy’s gasp and jerk, and the squeak of the chain pulled tight.
“Yes, that’s good, more.”
Giles could hear the hitch in her breath.
“Silence,” he said, and struck her again.
The Slayer’s curse, Buffy had told him once. She craved the extreme. Sensation, thrills, pain, pleasure. Thank goodness he was there to give it to her, she’d said, thank goodness she didn’t have to beg for it from strangers. Giles had not told her that she was true to her line in this, that he’d been trained to perform this service for her, just as he’d been trained to translate the prophecies for her. Trained to do his duty.
They hadn’t had to train him to enjoy it.
Strike and wait for the gasp and the ragged breath, wait for the pain to bloom. Watch her regain her composure. And then flog her again.
Red welts across her back and legs. Sweat dripping down her sides, sweat dripping from his temples. Slow, careful work, letting it build, watching her yield her control until she lost herself and began to writhe under the lash, to struggle, to twist and attempt to escape the next blow. But she had nowhere to go. Perfection, this moment, when he struck and Buffy at last cried out. She staggered, swung, then found her footing again. He let the flogger tails find the backs of her thighs one more time, harder, listened to her choked-off cry and watched her stumble again.
He caught her waist and held her up, granted her a moment of merciful reprieve for her arms and wrists. He pulled her close against him and pressed himself against her sore back and legs. She was trembling and breathing fast. He reached around and explored her sex. She was profoundly aroused and responsive to the least touch. He brought her near orgasm and held her there, teasing her until she whimpered as she hadn’t under the whip.
He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, “I’m going to whip you until I draw blood now.”
Buffy came on those words. He held her and let her ride through it, shuddering in his arms. Before she was done, while she was still shivering, he set her back on unsteady feet and watched her teeter on those high heels. Her calves were displayed to perfection, he thought. He’d do this again.
He gave her no time to settle herself, but took up the flogger again. This time he used all his strength. Buffy shook under the blow. Yes. Blood, beading out bright from her back. Giles smiled in sheer joy and raised his hand to do it again.
He ought to be afraid of himself, of this delight he felt in the pain of another human being. But his Slayer wanted exactly this from him, and that was enough for his conscience. Every stroke drew fresh blood now, from the knotted lashes digging into her skin. Every stroke made her cry out.
Go a little longer, she’d instructed him. Giles kept on until Buffy screamed.
He threw the flogger from himself and ran to her. He caught her up and held her as she cried. He freed her wrists and held her up when she would have fallen. Her arms hung dead at her sides, too exhausted to be raised. He lowered her to the floor and knelt between her spread legs. She was breathing in shuddering, sobbing gasps and her face was wet. But she was aroused and open and ready for him. He did his trousers enough to free himself and take her.
His orgasm was marvelous, blinding, utterly draining. The image that came to him was the first strike of the night stinging her back, the first gasp from her. He let his weight rest on her as he recovered himself. She was the Slayer, his Slayer, his miracle. She held him up now.
When Giles could push himself upright again, he buttoned himself and his savagery away and was the soft-voiced Watcher again. He lifted Buffy in his arms and carried her to his staircase. He stopped to kiss her forehead. Her face was wet with tears and sweat, but she had that expression of serenity again, and something more. Something he’d only seen after he whipped her. Dreamy, peaceful, blissful. Otherworldly.
“Was that what you wanted?” he said.
“Yes,” she said to him, blinking, her voice slow. “That was it. Do that next time, Giles. Every time.”
By the time his feet found the top step, Buffy was deep in sleep. He lowered her to his bed, a careful hand behind her head, and eased her over onto her stomach. He marveled at what he had done to her, at what she had wanted. He touched his fingers to the places where he’d broken the skin. Already the bleeding had stopped, save in a few places where he’d struck her over and over. And the handcuffs had cut into her wrists. She’d be able to see marks in the morning, when she looked. She’d be pleased.
There were medical supplies in his nightstand. Giles took them out and set to his final task of the night. Her blood had stained his shirt. Spatters on his sleeves and chest, from when he’d held her. He’d been soaked in Buffy’s blood many times before, desperate on his knees in the dark. It would happen again, until one night he’d find himself helpless.