Alarm.  Buzzing. 

Buffy opened her eyes.  The morning that greeted her was disorienting and upside-down, her feet where her head should’ve been.  She was tangled in sweaty blankets, as though she’d been tunneling through them in her sleep.  As her brain creaked to life, the embers of a very freaky dream winked out one by one, until there were only wisps of smoke.  Buffy grasped at them anyway.

Something about a play?

She rolled sideways, the sheets burrito-ing around her, and belly-flopped onto the floor.  The alarm kept buzzing away, totally oblivious to her plight.  When her fingers found it, she just barely resisted the urge to squeeze its little plastic guts out.

8:30 a.m., it said.

Shower-time was less of an event this morning.  She patted herself with a hotel-sized bar, gave her legs a cursory meh of a fur-exam, and then she was brushing teeth, toweling off, pulling on an outfit, moussing hair, the works.  She finished it off with a citrus spritz of perfume, then stared at the clock again.

9:23 a.m.

Record time.

~*~*~

Today was a “day off”.  For most people, “days off” were different after high school, but they were even different-er for Buffy Summers, the Vampire Slayer.

Back in the olden days, the final school bell just meant it was time for her to go to work.  There were other kids like her – kids who went off to sling frappuccinos or sell movie tickets, and even a few lucky souls who took piano lessons or ballet or something.  Buffy’s after school job, on the other hand, had a body count.

Nowadays, days-off meant slovenly mornings and lazy afternoons.  Dawn was already gone – the way she always seemed to be these days – and Wicca Incorporated was nowhere in sight.  Feeling blissfully unadventurous, she poured out a big bowl of Sugar-O’s and spent some quality time in front of the boob-tube.

She clicked through channel after channel of daytime junk: weird soap operas she didn’t recognize, talk shows that sounded more like yell-shows.  News, news, M.A.S.H. re-run, news.  One final click, and they all went away.

She sat very still for a couple of minutes, staring at the empty screen.  The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

She needed to get the hell outta there.

~*~*~

Sunshine!  Summer days!

Sunnydale, California, could be a very bright and cheerful place, at times.  Sure, the number of murders-per-capita rivaled most active war zones, but when the air wasn’t filled with screams and when the great, big yellow glob in the sky was shining down, life here could almost pass for normal.  Heck, pleasant, even!

So, Buffy strolled down Main Street, taking in the sights and sounds.  Children played and laughed and puppies yipped.  Young lovers waltzed hand-in-hand past old married couples lugging the month’s supply of groceries.  Through the glass front of the Espresso Pump, she stopped to watch a gaggle of teenage girls sitting in a booth, teasing and singing and plotting their adorable little schemes.  One day, she realized, they would all be dead.

Rotting in the dirt, six-feet down, their eyes chewed away by…

Ice cream!  Ye Olde Ice Cream Shoppe!

Buffy stopped to get one, quietly delighting in the fact that a double-dip Rocky Road with sprinkles suddenly qualified as “brunch.”  She sat on a bench near the corner of Hamilton, licking like she’d never licked before.  As the world streamed by, she thought of all the things she could not-do today.  She could not-pay-bills, for instance; or not-workout.  There were dozens of things not to do.

Visions of cute shoes danced in her head, but when she got to the mall she just stared longingly at them.  Shoe prices were pretty hilarious to her, these days.  There was only one pair that seemed worth trying on: black 3-inch stilettos with a kinky studded strap.  She totally hogged the mirror with them, slinking back and forth like a model at the World’s Sluttiest Fashion Show and flashing a deadly little zipper of a smile.

After that, she hit the bookstore.  She wandered through the maze of shelves, marveling at the sheer volume of words that surrounded her.  Trillions, maybe.

She thought about college again.  About poetry and poems and poets.  And while she thought about these things, she flipped through a How-To book for skinning and cooking wild animals:

‘A sharp knife is better than a dull knife when it comes to field dressing a buck’, it read.

Well, duh.

Back on the promenade, she swam upstream through schools of chattering strangers.  Some of them were loaded down with paper bags, looking vaguely anxious and confused.  Others solemnly pushed strollers filled with bored-looking kids.  For the most part, those people just looked exhausted.  Dead inside.  As if they knew where all of this was headed some day. 

As if they could hear the hungry worms crawling beneath their…

Victoria’s Secret!  Shiny!

The mannequins in the window were draped with assorted, tissue-thin lingerie.  One statue struck a saucy pose: hands on hips, the curves of her pasty, lifeless anatomy on full display under a sheer, red nightie.  Nearby, another garishly painted dummy bent low to adjust her stocking under the words Back Stage Sexy, a fringed garter belt perfectly framing her toned, fiberglass tushy.  A stapled-on wig fell in a coquettish swirl over one eye, while the other pouted soullessly at all the mallrat voyeurs beyond the glass.  Rounding out the sexy scene: a trio of headless, armless corpses, advertising the latest in contour-control bras.

Buffy drifted inside, listlessly combing up and down the aisles.  Compared to the way the sultry sirens in the window wore it, most of the stuff looked incredibly cheap and lame hanging on the rack.  A row of twenty or thirty Supersmooth Cheekinis dangled in a row from a metal arm, like sides of beef in a slaughterhouse.  She formed a mental picture of a third-world Cheekini factory, where grim-faced workers churned out an endless river of sexually stimulating underpants for pennies on the dollar.  She mused that the same factory probably made uniforms for Doublemeat Palace.

She asked one of the clerks if she could try on the ‘Back Stage’ dealie.  The little sales droid bounced around from aisle-to-aisle, spouting cheerful little nothings as she gathered the supplies.

Buffy thanked her, then took the gear into a pretty pink dressing room: black satin bra, garters, and a pair of worn, store-loaner fishnets with a history she tried not to think too deeply about.  She clicked the door shut, accidentally-on-purpose forgetting to lock it, and then stripped, all the way to her birthday suit.  She stuffed her legs into the thigh-highs and snapped the garters into place.  Hooked the bra on.

A weird staring match ensued with the creature in the mirror. She swayed and turned, hitched and adjusted.  The beaded fringes that dangled from the belt shimmied and danced when she twirled, first one way and then the other, ending in a feisty, feline pose that could melt an iceberg.

“You wanna fuck?” asked the slutty chick in the mirror, whispering the words through a phony, razor-thin smile.

Unsatisfied, she conjured the display doll’s pose in her mind, and tried her best to copy it.  She strapped her heels back on, and dipped forward gracefully.  When she tilted her head back to look, she realized her hair wasn’t falling quite right, and probably couldn’t.  Her new short ‘do just bobbed awkwardly into her nose and eyes.

She tossed her head a few times, and the bright spray of bangs reminded her of the fringes back there, so she gave her ass a come-and-get-it shimmy.  The beaded threads twirled and cascaded, beating like little rain drops across her skin.

“You wanna fuck me?” she asked again.  “Go ahead and fuck me, you… you… fucker.”

Buffy winced at the last word, and blew out the sort of small, self-pitying sigh common to most species of Nerd.  Thoughts of surrender crossed her mind, but she kept swaying her hips instead, trying to lose herself in the motion.  She arched her back and gave her butt a sharp, stinging swat, and then another, wondering if anyone could hear, if anyone knew what was going on.

Nothing.  She frowned at the door.

Buffy stood back up and faced the mirror girl again, dead-on this time.  She decided that the cropped hair made her look a little older, a bit more weathered.  It was strikingly yellow, with a little chemical help, and it made the little patch of fuzz downstairs look much darker by comparison.  She wasn’t alone on that tip.

After a few moments of sober deliberation, she pried off the bra and belt, slipped on her real clothes, grabbed a fresh pack of fishnets from an overflowing bin, and marched to the checkout counter.  Her eyes bugged out a little when the price winked up, but she courageously reached for her purse and charged like a raging elephant.

Later, in the little budget spreadsheet Willow designed, she’d record this purchase as a medical expense.

Because mental health sort of counted as medical, didn’t it?  And, according to Doctor Buffy’s own foolproof diagnosis, over the course of the past three weeks she had gone totally and permanently nutso.

~*~*~

3:44 p.m

Buffy still had some time to blow before patrol.  She briefly entertained a trip to the Magic Box, but kept making lazy laps around the block every time she drew near.  For some reason, she didn’t much relish flouncing in there with a bag full of kinky, overpriced Underoos.

On the third pass, signage of the Sun Theatre beckoned her with promises of Summer Blockbustery goodness.  She gave the marquis a cursory glance, settling on something called, “Death Masters II:  Armageddon It!”

She bought her ticket, grabbed a medium bucket of popcorn and a four-dollar “value” soda (medical expense).  While a movie trailer screamed in deafening Dolby, she found herself a nice, shady seat in the back row, far from the mass of coughers, snugglers and whisper-geeks who flocked to these sorts of affairs.

The flick was just as funny as she'd hoped.  Muscular dudes snarled their lame catchphrases over the roar of gunfire. A sexy Hollywood goddess in a leather bikini whipped exploding knives at a nuclear-powered zeppelin. When one of the Death Masters executed a super-slow-mo flying back fist, the Slayer almost choked on her crunchy, buttery snackage.

As the film neared its big, retarded finale, the screen erupted into flowery explosions and hysterically implausible kung-fu fights.  The intensity became almost hypnotic, like the music and the actors were racing each other to the inevitable credit scroll.

After it was over, Buffy filed out with the rest of the crowd.  The sun was hanging low in the sky, reminding her of one of those crazy relatives who hovers in the doorway saying, “Goodbye, goodbye,” but never actually leaves.

She trudged back to Revello Drive.  Dawn had already come and gone.  She’d left a post-it note in the kitchen, alongside an extra key.  Buffy picked up the note:

'At Marcy’s.  Sleeping over.
Try not to lose this one.

Dawn
A.K.A. The Keymaster!'

Buffy retreated to her bedroom and fished Victoria’s dirty little secrets out of their bag.  She started ransacking her closet for an appropriate disguise, tossing aside mounds of chiffon and nylon and lace.

The first winner was a velvet leopard print tank, no worse for lack of wear.  Next, three skirt candidates were interviewed.  While she liked the cut of Tan Suede’s jib, Black Mini got the job on personality alone.  Plus, if stuff got rough, Mini was a pretty cheap date.   And, when it came to her nightlife, stuff almost always got rough.

One way or the other.

The jewelry box was next.  She dug through the spaghetti piles: shiny crucifixes and rainbow beads hung from gold-plated serpentine links and leathery loops.  She pulled a silver chain free, and frowned at the little heart-shaped locket clasped in the middle.  In a moment of brilliant fashion surgery, she replaced it with the box’s miniature lock, and plugged it shut around her neck with an affirmative little grunt.

She skipped the clock this time, and looked out the window.

Sunset.

~*~*~

Shoes.

Shoes were always a problem.  When your night job involved killing evil monsters, mummies, zombies and vamps with your bare hands, the trick was to balance style and common sense.  Tonight, Buffy rocked a pair of ankle boots with a kitten heel.  Perfect for sidewalks, dark alleys, grave mud and rib-crunching sidekicks.  Also: cute!

It was the grave mud, now, Buffy listlessly mowing up the aisles, occasionally drifting just a little bit outside the lines.  Just to let ‘em know she was back.

So far, there wasn’t much in the way of action.  There was an ‘almost’, but it just turned out to be a trio of deeply stoned teenagers, waving their hands and philosophizing about the trails, man, the trails.  From a distance, it really did sorta look like karate.  Or, maybe Tai Chi.

So, she kept kicking along through the Dead Zone, kinda looking for trouble and kinda not.  She tried not to think too much about the direction she was headed, or how her winding path kept narrowing to a single, infuriating direction.

By the time she reached the door of his crypt, she was sweating a little.  Not, like, gross sweat, but the beady, tingly kind.  Or, at least that’s what she hoped.

She knocked twice.  The door creaked open.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Spike gave her a wary, sideways look.  “What?”

Buffy shrugged at him.  Tried and failed to figure out what to do with her hands.  “Patrolling,” she said, jerking her thumb back lamely.  “Just wanted to see if you wanted to… uh, you know… tag along?”

He blinked at her, totally bewildered.  “Tag along?”

“Forget it,” she said, and turned to leave.

The vampire practically jumped out of his skin.  “Yeah! Yeah,” he said.  “Just let me, uh, grab my gear.”

He stumbled frantically into the depths of the crypt, his open black shirt flapping like a bat’s wings.  She followed him without invitation, marveling for the millionth time at the weird guy-ness of the place.  There were empty beer bottles filled with cigarette butts, and peeled plastic packaging strewn about like the shed skins of snakes.  A cheap little TV sat on a rusted tray like a shrine to the world’s crappiest god.

“Just… gotta get a few things,” he hollered, smashing through some invisible plates.  “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable…”

She reclined into his old, tattered armchair, pretending it was Queen Anne’s throne.  A bottle of something red sat on the chipped little end table, and – after deducing it wasn’t blood-or-blood-related – she tipped it back and took a long, hard swig.  It was warm and earthy, with yummy, fruity notes.

Spike returned more composed, one hand smoothing back his platinum hair.  He caught her halfway through her second swig, but instead of bashfully setting it aside she tipped it back even more, letting the scarlet wine rocket down her throat.

“Oh, right,” he said.  “Yeah, help yourself, love.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, never taking her eyes off him.  The vampire was both strange and agonizingly familiar.  Buffy suddenly realized that she’d known this freak since high school, and that they’d tried to kill each other many times over.  Not especially newsy, but for some reason the factoid overwhelmed her tonight.  She raised the bottle in salute. 

“Good stuff,” she said.

He grunted and shook his head, eyes skeptically slotted.   He was still blown away by the costume, it seemed.  Either that or by her mood – the way she just melted into his chair and kicked back the wine, like they were old buddies or something.

Except, at least one of us isn’t wearing underpants...

“So,” he said, “we gonna go hurt something or what?”

“In a sec,” she replied, stretching her neck and shoulders like a cat.  “Kinda sore, you know?”

The word staked him, dead in the heart.  She shot him an innocent little smile, driving it home another agonizing inch.

“Yeah, uh… I mean–”

“Let’s watch some TV first,” she suggested.  “Kinda dead out there, and I sorta got this itch for bad tube-ness lately.”

Spike closed the distance cautiously, tossing aside the jacket on the way.  He snapped on the TV – old-fashioned-style, with his hand – and then sat in a sullen, cross-legged pile a few feet north of the set.  The tube flickered back images of a ten-car pileup, and columns of black smoke.

“Pass,” she said.

He twisted the chunky dial sideways.  The snowy images that thunked past proved he had a better taste in wine than in electronics.  The dial finally stopped on one of those old, black-and-white movies; the kind where everyone overacted and was way-dramatically lit.

He scooted backwards excitedly: mouth hanging open, features drawn to the screen like a dog to a fat, white moon.

“What’s this?” she asked.  Not really caring.

“Oh,” he said, sounding weirdly tense.  “Uh, sorry, yeah, we can change it.”  He reached for the knob.

“I just asked what it is, spazmo.”

He shot her another bewitched look.  She bonged her knees together playfully in reply, and then spread her thighs just wide enough to give him a flash of the goods.  But he wasn’t looking down there.   He was staring at the necklace, and at her eyes.  Terrified.

He’s terrified of you...

“It’s, uh, it’s called… Roman Holiday.”

 She took another long hit of wine.  “Sounds like a hoot,” she said.  “What’s it about?”

“You know, I might want to have nip of that,” he said.  He pointed to show he meant the wine, just in case.  “I mean, when you’re done with it.”

She waggled the bottle at him, and shot a smile that showed only the tips of her teeth.

He crawled over to the chair and flopped backwards between her legs.  For a few moments, they squirmed for comfort, and when they were finished, her fishnet calves were draped casually over his shoulders, and the back of his head rested a few inches from the Y of her thighs.  He held one hand up, and she stuck the bottle in it.

“Yeah, so.  Roman Holiday,” he said.  “Well there’s this ritzy bird.  A princess…”

“Princess?” she said, squeezing her legs hard against his chest.  “Like, with a castle and everything?”

“Hey, watch the bloody shirt!” He grabbed her ankle above the boot, glaring at the muddy sole.  “It’s a buck a wash, you know?”

“So?  Take it off.”

“Oh, so you can sod up my skin instead?  No thanks.”

She tipped the shoes out in front of his face.  “Fine, princess,” she said.  “Take these off, then.”

The vampire cast a fierce sideways glance at her, then quietly obeyed, yanking off one boot and then the other, and tossing them away.

She smoothed her legs and feet, sharpened them against one another like knives.  The texture of the fishnets felt nice and naughty, and she suddenly wondered why she’d never worn any before. Spike stared at them, mesmerized.  She knew he wanted to touch them – knew it was driving him crazy.  But he kept his cool somehow.

(Terrified.)

“You were saying?”

“Right yeah.  Snooty princess, on a trip to Rome.  Pissed about being so bloody rich and famous, if you can believe it.  So, gets a jab from a doctor to help her sleep.  Conks out on a park bench, and this wanker finds her, an’ he hauls her back to his flat.

“But, instead of giving her a proper shagging, the wanker just lets her sleep in his bed while he flutters off to work, because he’s a mincing poofter with stupid hair and a Nancy Boy of the highest order.  The end.”

She smiled and smoothed her hand up the back of his neck.   On the screen, the actors were chatting next to a huge stone face.  It was a pretty gross looking thing, with hollowed-out holes for eyes, and a long tongue that dangled out of its mouth like a panting dog.  The man and the woman stood next to it, exchanging soft but eager looks.

Buffy stifled a laugh.  “Whoa, what the heck is that thing?”

Spike’s shoulders sighed under her bouncing legs.  “Mouth of Truth.”

“Huh?”

“The Mouth of Bloody Truth,” he said again, exasperated.  “You stick your hand in there, and if you tell a lie it bites it off.”

“Gross!”  She pressed her knees against his ears and crossed her legs around his chest, gave him a playful squeeze and a tender, little shake.  “I knew you’d pick something sick,” she said, filling the words with a breathy heat.  She ran her fingers up his neck again, and through his hair.

The bait worked this time.  He set the bottle aside and smoothed his hand along her calf, gave the back of her knee a little scratch, plucking the smutty webs there like tiny harp strings.

While the TV violins sawed away intensely, the princess stuck her hand about halfway in the statue’s mouth, then giggled and pulled it out.  “Let’s see you do it,” she said.

“Sure,” the man said, not looking so totally sure about it.

He slowly placed his hand in the gap, the cheesy music swelling dramatically.  Buffy slid her hips forward in the chair, Spike’s neck gradually slipping into the noose of her thighs.

The hand disappeared, all the way inside.  The TV man screamed.

The princess jumped.

And, so did Buffy, a spasm jerking through her hips.

“Ow!”  Spike barked.

“Sorry,” she said, and belted out a low, goofy laugh.

“Coulda ripped my sodding head off!”

She bent forward, put her lips next to his ear.  “Awww,” she purred.  “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

And before he could answer, she did – started lapping and nipping at the skin of his neck, smiling and breathing hot.  The tense coils in his back and shoulders seemed to melt beneath her tender touch, like they’d been aching for this since the moment he’d opened the door.

He kissed her thigh, ran his tongue along the seam where the stocking met it, tangled it in the garter strap.  When her turned to face her, she ground her hips forward again, letting the seat cushion push the skirt up.   He ran his hands up under her legs and helped get the job done, peeling the mini up and cupping the globes of her bare ass firmly in his palms.  He squeezed and massaged them.  Kissed her warm thighs and drew little circles with his tongue.

She grabbed the back of the chair, her cheeks flushing hot.  By this time, her stockinged legs had grown minds of their own, crisscrossing over his back and gradually pulling him closer.  His smart hands kept working underneath, the pinkies straying into the small, delicate grooves that bordered her pussy.   The fingers stroked and teased the soft muscles there while his mouth slowly inched its way home.

When it arrived, she rewarded him with a whimper.  He ran his tongue up and down the seam playfully, licking the envelope to a filthy love letter.  His strong hands lifted her ass several inches above the cushion and spread the cheeks.  After that, she was airborne, riding his face.

Horsie…

He teased her tiny hood with his nose for a moment, then his lips found her lips.  He kissed her wet pussy like it might kiss him back, his tongue mapping every secret corner.  She rode her hips in a slow circle, feeling the little fringy bangles of Victoria’s garter belt tap along her back.

After she did it the third time, she arched herself even further into the air, freeing his hands to do whatever they wanted.  What they wanted turned out to be good.  His thumbs immediately found the slippery place where his chin brushed against her, kneading the thin flesh there.

The tongue dove deep, and flickered like a candle.  Buffy saw a forest fire, felt a wall crack in half.

When she opened her eyes he was looking into them, and she knew at once he’d been looking the whole time, praying for them to open, just like his body had prayed for her casual touch.  They were shot through with pain, like his heart was trying to squeeze through them.  She pushed back with her own eyes, and for a few moments the two gazes wrestled each other in the space between.

She grunted and pitched herself forward, sending both of them tumbling to the ground.  Her mind and body were both moving snake-quick.  He froze dumbstruck for a second while she flipped herself upside-down, pressing her face against his jeans and jerking at his zipper.

After the shock passed, he went right back to kissing her, taking big mouthfuls of her legs and ass, and pushing his tongue back inside her as she drew his cock into her lips.  They writhed together on the crypt’s hard floor, suckling at each other’s filthy treasures, each head resting on the pillow of the other’s thigh.  A wonderful delirium settled in: the feeling of being one thing, a mindless sex machine, fucking and sucking with their hips and faces.

A hot, surprise orgasm slammed out of her, warm leaves blowing in its wake.  She groaned and shook, and the small muscles of her back were wracked with sudden spasms.

Spike felt it happen.  He clenched tighter, trying to reach the finish line with her.  But she wouldn’t let him.  She peeled her mouth away with a devilish smile.

Poor Horsie…

He cried out in disbelief when she bounded to her feet, glared at her like he wanted to bite her in half.  By the time he staggered up, she was already standing in the open doorway. Laughing.

“Whuh?”  he said.  “What are you…?”

She shot him another sizzling little smirk.  “Aw, what’s the matter?  Can’t get your sweet release?”

Spike’s fangs fired down.  “You bitch!”

She giggled at him cruelly.  “Don’t blame me.  You said you wanted to ‘hurt something’, right?”

The vampire’s golden eyes blazed at her like a pair of suns.  He was breathing heavy, unaware he was even doing it, and his fingers convulsed at his sides like they were strangling the air around his dick.

She turned.  Gave the skirt a little flip, flashing her ass.  “Well, then.  I guess you’re just  gonna have to catch me.”

Buffy took off running:  arms and legs pumping, shoeless feet pounding the dirt like the Earth stole something from them.   She ran as fast as she could.  Which was pretty darn fast.

And – predictably, mercifully – he chased her.