Lessons

 

 

He wondered how they could have been so naive. Even vampires knew that there had to be a reward.  There had to be something to balance against the pain, otherwise the result was madness—just madness.

Weeks, it had been, handed off between the Watcher and the Harris git before finally being granted permission to live on his own again.  It was reluctant permission at best, since wherever he went, those bloody children always seemed to find him and interfered with the life he was slowly trying to build for himself.  Granted, since his attempts at earning his own dosh were pathetically unsuccessful, that was probably a good thing.  There was always some job they needed done, some bit of information they’d pay him for.  Wasn’t much, but it got him blood.

And alcohol.

It was amazing how often bodies bumped each other, stepped, kicked, brushed, pushed, anything’ed each other.  Spike knew it, now, thanks to the jolt of warning pain he received every time some mindless moron got in his way.  It never mattered what his intent was, trial and error experimentation had proven.  It was dependent on what the human felt—if there was pain, no matter how minor, the chip went off.

He should have know there was more to it than that.

He’d found himself a crypt, slowly dressing it up to make it halfway livable, but he spent most of his time drinking.  A human bar on the outskirts of town, serving to the rougher element, didn’t question his sporadic payments or his desire for a bottle and a corner to drink it in.  He spent most nights there, frittering away what little blood-money he had on an unending supply of bottles.

His goal was the reach that one moment, that special moment where liquid oblivion was reached—and he could forget, even for an instant, everything that had followed the cursed day he’d arrived in this little burg.

He hadn’t gotten there yet.  That was okay—he just needed to drink more.

The rest of the bar learned not to bother him.  He never touched the unwelcome visitors, no matter what they were after, but glowing eyes, misshapen features and long, sharp teeth were sufficient to scare most people off.  Spike was just glad the chip was limited to actual human contact and not some bolloxy mess about intent or motivation.  He could still change his face with ease, one of the open weapons left to him.

So he sat.   And he drank.   And he wondered if there was any kind of upside possible to his situation.

Then.  . . things changed.

It started with a guy.  A regular, normal guy who sat down at his table just like dozens of other men had and women had done.  Didn’t matter what he was after, not at first, because Spike had heard it all before.  Just another guy.  Some regular, working schmoe with no idea that he’d slid next to a vampire, no clue that had it not been for government intervention, he’d probably be dead.

Spike growled, low and menacing, when a sweaty hand slid under the table to rest on his thigh.

“Hey,” the man said quietly.  “Not good to drink alone.”

“Not interested,” he replied shortly.  “Sod off.”  For good measure he flashed a bit of yellowed eye and elongated fang.  The guy’s laughter told Spike that he was either a blind fool or a moron.  That was okay.  There were plenty of things he could do to remove the unwelcome visitor that wouldn’t result in a drop of physical pain.  Idiot Scoobies, thinking he was truly muzzled and chained just because that avenue was barred to him.

“Sure.  Pretty boy like you should have someone buying all his drinks.”  The hand squeezed a bit, sliding up higher.

Alcohol?   Well, then, that was a different thing altogether.  Spike carefully looked the man over, noting a tolerably clean condition and no obvious problems.  It wouldn’t hurt to string this guy along, then, see where it got him. . .

Glancing significantly at his nearly empty bottle, he stifled an exultant grin when his new gentlemen friend ordered two more.  Nice.  Spike drank quickly, noting with amusement the glee that appeared in the other man’s eyes.  The hand slid higher, beginning to kneed lightly.  Five bottles—the total after these two were drained—wasn’t going to do more than make the vampire tipsy.  However, he played along, beginning to enjoy the role he crafted for himself.

This was an old game, played to perfection in the seventies and early eighties in New York with Dru.  Been a while since he’d done it—it hadn’t worked well once they’d gone back to Europe, and after that Dru had been ill—but some things never changed.  Normally, he used his small frame and pretty-boy looks to play the naive innocent, but tonight it was just too much effort.  Instead, he became the drunken buffoon, allowing traces of nervousness to convince the other man—Bill—that the only reason he hadn’t flown into a homophobic rage was the massive amounts of alcohol in his system.

They chatted awkwardly for another ten minutes, Spike drinking steadily throughout the encounter.  Both bottles disappeared, a third handed over with condescending amusement.  Bill knew the score, obviously experienced at this, and Spike was comfortable letting him have the lead.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?   Lookin’ kinda sick, there.”

“Yeah. . .mate.  Think I need to, um, clean up.  Or something.”  Amusing, to play this type of character.  The irony of allowing someone else to use him, a vampire, the ultimate user.

His stomach twisted.

Refusing to dwell on the growing sick feeling—what if this isn’t just a suck-and-go?  Can’t even scratch the fucker if he decides to play it rough—he remembered past encounters.  Innocent boys looking for their firsts, picked up by a stranger who looked silkily sensual in the darkened bars and street corners they frequented.  The sound of their startled gasps of pleasure as they felt oddly cold touches on their burning skin.  Sometimes, if he was feeling magnanimous, he would actually suck them dry—before sucking them dry.

The choices were infinite: whether he was standing or on his knees, mouth or ass, alley way or bathroom.  Whether he was the buyer or the bought, innocent or worldly, sweet or cruel.  Dru had shook her head at her lover’s antics, content to watch and dance to her mysterious music while he played, sometimes even joining in.

Those times had been special.

Concentrating on the prior memories he was unsurprised when he felt himself harden.  Vampire, here.  Can get it up anytime anywhere.  Glancing at the watch he’d nicked from the Watcher—who hadn’t yet noticed it missing—he decided he’d been there about five minutes.  Good.  Shouldn’t be much longer now.  He’d have to do a good job, secure himself a big tip; the effects of several bottles of alcohol were wearing off, thanks to vampire physiology, and he needed more.

Much, much more.

The door clicked open, Bill smiling with smug glee.  Spike made himself look confused and nervous, growing self-disgust warring with arousal.  It was what the client wanted, after all, and that’s what gave the game its spice.

“This your first time?”

If Spike hadn’t been in his role, he would have smirked.  Condescending little shit.  He remembered the way Dru’s eyes had dilated when he’d brutally fucked a bruiser who’d never bottomed in his life.  Or when he’d been so gentle, so compassionate and caring, when he’d sucked a beautiful teen to his first ejaculating orgasm.  That boy’s cream had tasted like fine wine, and if it wasn’t for Dru’s jealousy he’d have turned the lad that night.  Instead, since she was jealous, he’d been allowed to live.

“Yes.”  He began to pant when the heavy belt was undone, jeans open and pushed down just enough to release a pulsing erection.  Small, the dispassionate observer in the back of his mind noted neutrally.  If anything, small was probably good.  It’d been a while since he’d done this.

“Mm, lovely.  You’re such a pretty boy.”

This boy’s been screwing before your grandparents were old enough to know the difference between a cock and a cunt.  Save the bullshit and just let me get to it.  Except Jack, the homophobic straight guy who he was pretending to be, wouldn’t have thought that.

“M’not a boy,” he mumbled instead, allowing himself to rub lightly over his own erection, wishing he could sweat.  Nasty stuff, water dripping over your skin like that, but it would complete the picture.  “’m a man.”

“You doing this for money, then?”

“Wouldn’t say no to a few quid,” he responded through quickening breath.  He hid a smirk as Bill’s heartbeat increased—he’d thought the business aspect would appeal.  Several bills were peeled out and waved.  “I like you, and you get more.”

“Bastard,” he whispered, choking the word out and letting the hate grow a touch stronger.  Not much more, he cautioned himself.  This one isn’t sadistic, just a bit on the dominating side.

Bill pushed his jeans down a little further.  “You know why I love this bar,” he commented as he leaned back against the door.  “There are three separate bathrooms back here.  One for men.  One for women.  One for those of—other needs.”

Spike made himself look surprised, although what he really wanted to do was roll his eyes.  Did this guy actually think that even a confused moron like Jack wouldn’t notice that?   Or make assumptions?   That, and the fact that this particular bathroom was very clean.  A small box near the door explained why—and the relatively cheap liquor prices.  Every buyer left a bit in that small box, a way to fulfill their fantasies without the dirty, smelly grime of reality.

He’d known of this added feature before he’d ever set foot in this particular bar.  Actually, it was part of the reason he’d chosen it.

“That’s sick.”

“Yeah,” Bill laughed.  “So are you.  C’mere.  I want you to taste it.”

Spike settled onto his knees, making a show of grimacing and fussing to get himself comfortable.  But the show went on too long, a maelstrom of emotion knocking him off balance and out of character.

I’m a vampire! his mind, no longer detached, screamed.  Not supposed to be doing this ’les it’s fun and I get a good meal out of the deal.  Sure as hell shouldn’t be doing it cause I’m fucking horny and it’s a way to make money.  Money!  What the hell does a vampire need with fucking money!

A hand clamped on his neck, forcing his head up.  “Hey.  I already spent good money on you.  Don’t think you’re getting out of this.”

The pain helped him focus, banishing the unwelcome thoughts and concentrating on the scene.  He let himself look angry, then ashamed, and finally cowed.  “I know.”

“Good.  That’s good.  Oh, and feel free to make whatever noise you want.  This place is soundproofed.  No one will disturb us.”

The combination was meant to reassure and terrify at the same time, removing the terror of being found out—but increasing the very real fear that if this went wrong, there was no escape.  It made the look in Spike’s eyes more real, the bitterness just a bit too brittle, since unlike all the other times he’d played this game—it was true.

Bill laughed and pulled the head he still held close enough that Spike’s nose brushed an already weeping cock.  “No, don’t worry.  I’ll give you plenty of instructions.  Lick me.  No teeth, just tongue.”

He never should have done it.  He should have shoved himself free, broken the damned lock and run into the night.  He should have started screaming rape—which would have brought someone running, despite what Bill seemed to think.  He should have broken through the frosted window and crawled out.  He should have done anything except what he did.

Gently, hesitantly, nervously, he let his tongue poke about the bottom of the head that dangled before him.

“Oh, yeah, Jack.  Just like that.  Do that, all over.  Use the flat of your tongue, just like I was a fucking popsicle.”

At first, it was a cause for concern.  The crackling, sparkling jolt that ran from head to toe was just like what he felt when he bumped into someone.  Not really pain, per se, but a warning.  A hint that if he didn’t stop right then, it was going to get a lot worse.  As he tasted the sticky precum coating the shaft, he felt that same prickling feeling cover him in gooseflesh he hadn’t felt in a hundred years.

If the bloody, buggering chip went off here and now, Spike was in deep trouble.

But it didn’t. 

“Suck me.  Just the head.”

The pain of the chip usually felt cold—harsh, icy shocks that he could almost see.  This felt. . . warm.  Soothing.  Nice.  As he sealed his lips behind the head, sucking just a bit while his tongue traced patterns around the slit, the feeling grew stronger . . . deeper. . . it felt. . . good.

“God, you’re a natural,” Bill moaned, the single most clichéd bit of drivel that Spike had often sworn he never wanted to hear again, and the next bloke he sucked off that said that was going to get his dick ripped off and shoved down his own throat.

Instead, Spike moaned and sucked harder.

It felt good.  It felt very good, a euphoric feeling tickling the edge of his mind as he worked the cock before him.  The more moans he got, the more panting grew harsher and the heart beat against its bony cage, the better the feeling.  He sank into it, following the gasped out directions instantly, anything to keep that feeling.

Who cared that he was a vampire with no bite?  Who cared that the demon community had thrown him out, leaving him stuck between worlds?  Who cared that he was alone?  Who cared that he was one his knees with a pathetic excuse for a cock in his mouth, all the way in and barely reaching the beginning of his throat?  Who cared that he was moaning like a whore, his own erection so far beyond hard that it could have sliced through diamond?

“Knew you’d like it, bitch,” Bill babbled above him.  “Knew you’d beg for it.  They all beg me for it.  You love it, you fucking slut.  Yeah, that’s it, moan for me, fucking scream for me.  Oh, god, harder!”

Bill was fucking his face with abandon, now, regardless of the supposedly virgin throat.  Practically screaming, he rained down words of use and abuse, hands pulling at gel-crusted hair, holding the head steady while he thrust.

Spike let him, every word, every moment, driving him higher.

It felt like flying.  Better then when he’d tracked down the arsewipes he’d been mocked by and tortured them before draining them dead.  Better than the first time he and Dru had fucked.  Better than the first time he and Angelus had fucked!  Every word, every movement Bill made translated into the most extreme form of pleasure he’d ever felt.

“Take it, bitch, take it, take it, take it!”

The pleasure spiraled up, so extreme that now it was almost pain, filling him as warm, salty fluid filled his mouth.  He struggled to force himself to swallow, his own body throbbing right on the edge, exquisite pleasure holding him there, keeping him suspended—

“Fuck, you’re good!”

He exploded.

Part 2

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