Warnings: slash, BDSM (bondage and butt plugs and whippings, oh my!)
Notes: thanks to my beta entrenous88
response to Challenge #1
He almost stops it right here. He can just call out the safeword, and it will all be over. The leather cuffs will come off his wrists and ankles, the blindfold will be removed, his lover and he will get dressed and leave and not come back. But ...
It took Xander two years in this steady, loving relationship to finally ask for what he fantasized about. He isn't going back, not now.
He can see faint glimmers through the cloth that covers his eyes. When he sees a shadowy figure walk by, he tries to focus. The figure stops, and through black, gauzy vision he sees his lover come closer. Then there is a tug on the cloth behind his head, and the cloth is pulled tighter, and then there is nothing but blackness and the sound of his breathing, coming quicker now, and more ragged.
His partner doesn't muffle his steps as he walks around the room and Xander's mind flashes back to the way it looked when they first came in. A playroom, it looked like every fantasy Xander had ever had, and some he hadn't. Paddles, floggers, whips (and things he didn't know what to call) lined the walls in handy racks. Xander's first thought was that the carpenter who'd made the displays had known his business. Now, Xander tries to picture the room again as the footsteps sound, pause, and sound again.
The booted feet stop by what he thinks may be the whips, and he flinches, again wondering if he should stop before this game goes any further. But ...
The feet come closer, and his body automatically tightens. What will it be? A little paddle, designed to warm him up slowly? A whip that looks like something out of Indiana Jones, that would ... what exactly would that do, anyway? Flay his skin?
But it isn't either of those things. Xander jerks as the first drop of warm oil hits his ass, then he relaxes as it drizzles down his crack, pooling between his legs. Then cool hands are on him, spreading him apart and massaging the oil into his skin and against his hole. Fingers push inside him and he bites his lip to keep from moaning. He's stretched and filled, more and more, until he feels something thick and wide and oiled push in, and then it stops, firmly nestled inside. A plug, then, but a plug bigger than any he's ever used before, thicker than a cock, enough to make him burn when he shifts.
The footsteps are farther away now, and Xander's sweating. His body is flushed; he feels heat everywhere. The sheets under him aren't cool anymore, but as hot as he is, and the silk fabrics (red, he remembers they're red) stick to his skin as he tries to shift around. His breath even seems too hot for his throat, and too heavy for his lungs. He thinks he might suffocate, just lying here in wait.
Suddenly there is a cool, soothing hand on this back, petting him, calming him, and there's love in that touch. His breathing slows and quiets, and he thinks he might be okay if he just focuses on that hand, stroking his skin, up and down his back, up and down.
He hears the quick whistle of air a split second before he feels the connection. He has no time to think, to wonder, to identify what it is before there's another whistle and another line of stinging pain, and then he knows. Riding crop.
Over and over, too fast to even count, the crop comes down on his skin. First on one buttock, then the other, and just when he thinks he has it figured out, where he can anticipate it next, the crop connects with his back.
Xander bites his tongue, fighting the urge to moan, to react. He tries to pull away from the stinging pain, but there is nowhere to go, nothing to do to prevent it. His only choice is to stop it, here and now, or to ...
Give in to it.
The entire experience changes as soon as he surrenders. He no longer hears the air, skin, air, skin crop. He doesn't hear anything, just a buzzing in his ears. There is nothing but his skin. Nothing but the connection. He arches up into it, and the heat spreads deliciously through his body, and it isn't the claustrophobic, sticky heat of before, it's a warmth that strokes him, licks him, travels through his body like love and fire and fervent need.
There is more now, more sensation, and it's so good that he moans and writhes and begs for more. As he moves, the plug in his ass nudges against his gland, sending out white lightning pleasure that floods his body and settles in his cock. He writhes more, into the crop, into the sensation that crosses the line back and forth from pain to exquisite pleasure. He grinds down, too, his balls throbbing, his cock trapped between his heated body and the silk sheets. He has little room to move, the leather at his ankles and wrists prevent it, but this contained, controlled feeling does more to excite him than curb his desperation.
There is nothing now, nothing except the buzzing and the connection, and Xander is the connection, and his skin crackles and his ass ... oh fuck His lover bumps the plug and continues to switch him and he's crying out, coming in jolts and waves, and he's sobbing into the bed, grateful and in such awe that he thinks this is the purest form of love, ever.
His arms and legs are freed immediately, and the plug and blindfold are removed. There's a cool hand stroking his sweaty hair off his forehead, and when he looks up, his Spike is there with water. Xander takes it gratefully.
"Thank you," he says hoarsely. He means for everything.
Spike looks down at him like Xander is the only person in the world for him, the answer to every question. "You're welcome, love," he says softly. "Thank you for trusting me."
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