Title: Memories of the Body

Author: Salustra

E-mail: goddess_salustra@juno.com

Pairing: Spike/ Angel

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Spike plays a little game to pass the time alone.

Acknowledgment: Thanks to my usual co-writer, Pet, for the scenes and motifs I am lifting from some of our joint fics.

DISTRIBUTION: Various lists and Wierd Romance RP- BtVS/Ats RP http://groups.yahoo.com/group/WierdRomance . Anyplace else is fine, just let us know where it is going.

Spoilers: Through Ats Season 5. Nothing specific except a tiny reference to Why We Fight.

Disclaimer: I don't own Spike or anything else from ME… though I really wish I could.

Feedback: Please? E-mail to goddess_salustra@juno.com



Memories of the Body
By Salustra

Another bloody fucking night alone in my little monk's room. Well, only one thing to do if I'm ever going to sleep. Freshly showered, all naked, get on the bed. Grab the lube from the bedside table, lie back, set the lube where I can reach it without thinking.

And now the sodding game. Let's see how far I can get this time. Where to start? At the top, I reckon. It's been a while, might as well start there.

The hair. It's softer and finer than it looks. The nancy-boy hair gel disguises it now. I remember when it was long and soft and fell around my face when he bent down to kiss me. I used to brush it for him, over and over, til it shone. My favorite look was during the war, on the sub, all brushed back. Of course, that may have to do with my fondness for that particular interlude.

Look down. Yep, that got the lad going. Too quick. Shouldn't have thought about the sub. Ah well, hold out as long as possible before the next phase. But that's a speed record, one non-sexual body part before my langer stood up. Sure sign it's been too damn long.

The forehead. I give him too much grief over that. But really, I love it. Makes him look brutal and fierce. Damn sexy beast.

His eyes. Could write poetry about his eyes. Actually have. It's drivel, but that's not due to the subject. His eyes can go from soft chocolate brown to stony black in seconds. I can always tell his mood by his eyes. But when they are soft, I can do nothing but melt in them. It was his eyes that caught me first, when he stepped out of the darkness. I was lost the moment I saw them.

His mouth. Ohhhh, I'm in trouble here. Firm lips. Brilliant teeth. And a wicked tongue…not as wicked as mine, but close. He used to amuse himself sometimes by having us kiss for hours. Nothing else, just kiss. When I would get aroused and impatient, he'd hold my hands above my head and continue the game, lying on top of me but otherwise just kissing. Lips and teeth and tongues, working together, duelling, doing what our bodies would be doing later. He used to play the other game, too, of using his mouth on my body (not on the lad, of course, `cause masters don't do that, but all over the rest of me), licking and sucking and biting, until I was about to burst before taking me hard and fast.

Yep. Didn't make it off the face and now it's time for the next phase. Get the lube, spread it on, start stroking. Slowly now, make it last.

His neck. Spent most of my nights pressed against it, licking it. Know every inch of the front of it with my tongue alone. It smells like vanilla and cinnamon and musk…like the rest of him. And the nape of his neck…I could get him hard if I stroked it just the right way, while looking into his eyes. `Course, he could do the same to me.

Shoulders. Broad, muscular, powerful, like the man. Sigh.

Which way now? Down the back, I guess. Also muscular, and incredible. Spent lots of time playing with those muscles, stroking and rubbing. He used to like me to massage him, had me instructed in the art. Used to praise my clever fingers and firm hands, better than any woman's, he said. And the tattoo. The damn tattoo. Spent countless hours licking and tracing that, with tongue and fingers. I could get him hard just licking the tattoo when he was sensitive, but it also used to soothe him to sleep.

No further down the back, save the fun areas for last, if we make it that far, back to the front. Oh, buggering hell, his chest. My fingers would head there first. Stroke it, play with his nipples. Suck his nipples, bite, make him hard for me, make him want me. If I could get mouth or fingers there for more than a minute he was done for—one way or another, I'd get his cock after that.

Oh, bloody hell, can't think about the cock right now, won't last long that way. If I can make this last just a little longer, the cum will be good and hard and I can sleep the night, maybe even dream of him. Back in the good days, when he still loved me.

No further down then, back up to his arms. Been imprisoned by them more times than I can count. Encircled, crushed, held tight and secure. Sigh. Used to wake up held tight against him. He couldn't bear to have me gone, even when he slept. Good thing I didn't have to breathe, `cause I couldn't've if I'd wanted.

His hands. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Not gonna make it past the hands. Stroking fast and hard now. Those damn sexy big hands. He could be so gentle with them on my face, or so brutal. However he used them- touching me, stroking me, holding me- I loved it. Used to cum sometimes just from the first touch of his hand on my cock. Used to write poetry about them too, mostly filthy.

Now. God fuck buggering bloody hell now! Screaming his name, like always, eyes closed, picturing him. So real. So fucking real. I can almost smell, him almost feel him, almost sense…oh shit.

Angel? What are you doing here? No, I wasn't thinking about you. Why? Ok, yes, I was screaming your name. What are you doing? Where are you putting your hands?

Oh….yes


END